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(P. O. Box 3751.3 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


A NAMELESS SIN 


CHAPTEE L 

AK HEIEESS WANTED. 

It was a terrible temptation — Laure Eoden stood quite 
powerless under it. She could not trample it under foot, 
she could not yield to it; a temptation, perhaps, greater 
than any placed before a woman yet. She had not reached 
the age when it is easy to make plain, formal, holy duty 
the first object in life. She was so young as to be in many 
things still only a beautiful, dreamy^ sunny-hearted child; 
the delicate rounded figure, with its gracious curves, had in 
it the virginal beauty given by old masters to the vestal 
virgins; the lovely face had the first sweet bloom of youth, 
the golden hair was all sunshine. There was no age with 
its bitterness of experience to help her, no wisdom learned 
from sorrow ; she was alone with her youth and her beauty, 
her pride, her dainty instincts, her refined tastes, her 
aristocratic prejudices, her longing for life; alone, with all 
these to. meet the temptation that was to decide her future. 

The picture is a beautiful one. Far away to the right 
and the left, to the north and th§ south, stretch the bonny 
woods of Aylmer, woods that are famed in story and song; 
a green, beautiful kingdom, full of music and perfume, 
where great trees spread their swaying boughs and birds 
built their nests — a kingdom all poetry. There was an 
open green space where the little house stood — it was called 
Beech Cottage — and Owen Eoden with his fair young wife 
lived there. A pretty little house with a garden full of 
flowers in the front, and a garden full of fruit in the back; 
a house where the flowers ran riot, for the roses climbed 
over the windows, and the.> jasmine peeped in at the 
doors; the June sun was shining, the birds were all singing 
far away, the wood-pigeons cooed, and the ring-doves called 


6 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


for their loves; the sunbeams fell in a flood of light in the 
little room where Laure Eoden stood, with the great 
temptation of her life facing her. 

The house was but small — the kitchen was small but 
neat and clean. She looked out of place there with her 
beautiful face and figure. She was standing against the 
. little table, a small fire burned in the grate, and in a chair 
placed near the door sat an elderly gentleman, shrewd, 
keen of face and spare of figure, quick of speech, and 
with a very evident admiration of the lovely/ young girl be- 
fore him. 

1 ask no questions,^^ he said, I make no inquiries, I 
do not ask you whether you are married or not. I assume 
that you are not since you do not tell me that you are. 

As he spoke she hastily hid the white hand on which 
shone the plain circle of gold — hid it, then Hushed as she 
did so, and shyly turned from the keen, clear gaze of the 
stranger. 

‘‘ I do not — in fact, I will not ask whether you are mar- 
ried or not; I repeat this that you may understand me. I 
am the agent of the MSrquis Auguste de Bourdon, who has 
commissioned me to find his niece. I find her in you.^^ 

Are you quite sure?^^ she asked, gently. 

‘‘ Men like myself never make mistakes,^^ he replied; 

one such error would mar a life-time of success. I am 
quite sure that you are the lineal descendant of Jean Bap- 
tiste de Bourdon; I can prove it to you in three minutes. 

‘‘ Prove it,^^ she said, quietly. 

The sunshine deepened, the music of the birds seemed to 
grow clearer and sweeter. Prove it,^^ she repeated. 

Even as she spoke the sound of horses’ feet was heard 
on the grass plot; then came the sound of a riding- whip 
rapping at the door. 

'Phe stranger hastily drew back, and Laure Eoden said to 
him in a tone half of apology: 

It is Lady Cardin; I must speak to her.” 

She opened the door and looked at the proud, stately 
lady who sat her horse so well — a lady no longer young, but 
with the remains of what had been a magnificent face — a 
proud lady, who evidently considered her inferiors a part 
and parcel of the dust she rode over. No smile came to 
her haughty face as the beautiful girl bent before her. 

Is Owen Eoden at home?” she asked. 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


7 


No, my lady/^ was the brief answer. 

Tell him when he comes, that Lady Cardin is very dis- 
pleased over the Spanish birds. You will not forget?^^ 

“ I will not forget, said Laure. 

Pray do not repeat my words. Tell Owen Eoden that 
he should have attended to them. You yourself must have 
a great (leal of leisure time on your hands. Why did you 
not attend to them?^^ 

I never thought of them, my lady,^^ was the truthful 
reply. 

You should think; the great fault of people of your 
class is that they never will think. 

Then tlie proud eyes fell on a fold of her riding-habit 
that had grown dusty from the long ride. 

Will you find a brush,^^ she asked, and take off this 
dust for me?^^ 

Laurels face flushed; a few days since she would have 
flown at those words of command from a great lady, now 
she thought: 

If what he says be true — if I am a De Bourdon, it is 
ratber she who should wait on me, than I on her. 

Then Lady Cardin looked up with such a haughty air of 
surprise and astonishment that Laure hastened to do her 
bidding. She found the brush and removed the specks of 
dust from the dark riding-habit, the groom looking on with 
stolid admiration at the beautiful face and white hands. 

Thank you,'’^ said her ladyship. 

She was haughty beyond all words, but generous to her 
inferiors. She placed some silver in Laurels hand, and 
again the girPs face flushed hotly as she let the money slip 
through her fingers to the ground. 

How careless you are,^^ said Lady Cardin. Some of 
you people seem hardly to know how to use your hands. 

She spoke with contemptuous hauteur, then she touched 
her horse with her jeweled whip and rode away, followed 
by her groom. Laure re-entered the house, the flush still 
on her face, and the proud light deepening in her eyes. 
The visitor looked up at her entrance. 

A proud lady,^^ he said, but she has the right to be 
proud. She is of high birth — ^ daintier clay ^ than those 
p'eople who do not know how to use their hands. 

Laure held out her hands as he spoke; they were whiter 
than my lady^s own, with pink slender fingers, and a rose 


8 


A i^TAMELESS SIK. 


flush in the soffc palm. She looked at them steadily, then 
hastened to hide the one on which shone the plain gold 
ring; she gazed with clear, bright eyes into the stranger ^s 
face. 

You heard all she said — proud Lady Cardin; you heard 
how she spoke to me, her words, her tone of voice. 

I heard, he answered. 

And you tell me that I am a De Bourdon?^ ^ she asked.' 

I can prove it to you,^^ he replied. 

Then do so,^^ said Laiire Koden; I am listening at- 
tentively. 

With a keen, business-like air, Mr. Eodway drew his; 
chair nearer to her, further from the door, and began : 

“ You will not find my story troublesome, nor will it take 
you long to understand. Years ago, the marquis — Jean 
Baptiste de Bourdon, one of the a&cient peers of France — 
was banished from the kingdom, his estates confiscated, he 
himself a ruined man; he earned some kind of living here 
in England by teaching languages, here also in England he 
married quite a young English girl, who died when her 
only son was born. This son grew up, married in Eng- 
land — married a poor, unlettered' country girl, who had 
two children, a boy and a girl — follow me patiently — the girl 
disappeared, married some young man of no account; the 
son was restored to the estates of his ancestors. But he, 
the present Marquis de Bourdon, refused either to live or 
to trust in a country so fickle as fair France; he sold his 
estates, keeping only the old Chateau de Bourdon, and he 
purchased Fernholme Abbey where he lives now. It 
proved to be a most fortunate purchase for him; a railway 
company bought, for an enormous sum, one quarter of the 
land, and in a remote corner was found one of the most 
valuable coal mines in England, so that the marquis is a 
millionaire.^^ 

‘‘ A millionaire,^^ repeated Laure, wonderingly. 

Yes, that means a man worth a million of money; he 
tried everything possible to find his sister but could not; the 
only thing known of her was that she married and lived in 
London, that her husband ^s name was Knowles, and he 
was a writing-master. He died in London, and his widow, 
with one little girl, went away; after three years of patient 
tracing, of unwearied labor, I have found her grave and 
her living child; your mother’s name was Augusta de 


A NAMELESS SIIST. 


9 


Bourdon, you are her daughter and the niece of the Mar- 
quis de Bourdon. 

Did my mother know who she was?^^ asked Laure. 

I should imagine not; there was no hope, no thought, 
when she was a child, of ever recovering the family estates 
and honors — no thought of it. She was called Miss Bour- 
don-people did not know even her right name; certainly, 
John Knowles, the writing-master who married her did not 
know, and it is more than probable that she did not know 
herself. 

“ She never spoke to me of France or the De Bourdons 
— I can not remember one word. You must be right — she 
knew nothing of it. 

Mr. Kodway continued: 

^The present marquis married a peer^s daughter, who 
died a few years afterward, leaving him a son and daugh- 
ter. By a strange fatality, they are both dead, and he, 
with ^s large fortune, his grand estates and ancient titles, 
has no heir or heiress. He did all that was possible in 
order to find out if his sister had left any children, and 
after having tried in vain for some years, three years ago 
he placed the matter in my hands. 1 will be quite frank 
with you, and tell you all that happened. He promised 
me five thousand pounds if I could find Augusta I)e Bour- 
don^ s child and take her to him; but to this there are cer- 
tain conditions. 

He paused and looked at her; a furtive light in his eyes, 
a quiver on his lips, a restless movement of his hands 
showed his agitation. She stood perfectly calm and still. 

There are conditions to everything in this world — 
what are these 

Still an unaccountable pause. He looked at the green 
trees waving outside, he looked at the blue sky, at the red 
hanging roses, at the sunlight on the wall, at everything 
and anything except her. Her silence compelled him to 
speak, his lips grew dry, and his voice hurried at the 
words. 

“ The conditions are simple enough. The marquis is a 
proud man, and there is nothing he regrets so much as the 
low marriages which have ensued since the fall of the fam- 
ily fortunes; he told me distinctly that if 1 found his niece, 
and found her married, I was to leave her as she was — he 
would find some other heir or heiress; but if I found her 


A KAMELESS SIIiT. 


10 

j 

, single, I must take her to him, and he would adopt her, 
make her his heiress. That is why I never asked you 
whether you were married or not.^^^ 

/ I understand, she replied; and then for some min- 
, utes there was silence between them. 


CHAPTER IL 

A WOMAK^S TEMPTATION. 

Me. Rooway was the first to break that silence. 

‘M have had great difficulty,^ ^ he said, in finding you; 
it has by no means .been an easy task; I have worked both 
night and day. I had no clew; the only thing I was quite 
certain of was that your mother left London, taking you, 
a little child, with her, but to which of the towns or vil- 
lages of England she went, I knew not.^^ 

It must have seemed a hopeless task,^^ she said, mus- 
ingly. 

“ Yes, it did seem so; that is why the marquis promised 
to reward me so highly if I accomplished it. Five thousand 
pounds is well worth working for. If I win that, I shall 
not trouble myself to work much more; I shall buy a little 
house in the country, and there enjoy the remainder of my 
life."^ 

She looked at him with calm, scrutinizing eyes. A little 
bird had flown on to the window seat, and was singing the 
sweetest song; its voice filled the room with soft trills of 
music. Her face changed slightly as she heard it. 

What if you do not win?^^ she asked. 

He shrugged, his shoulders, and answered, gravely: 

In that case, the marquis would defray all my ex- 
penses, and pay me for my time, but I should not have the 
five thousand pounds. 

Explain the conditions to me fully, she said; and he 
noticed that she turned aside as she spoke, so that the 
sunlight did not reach her, nor could she see tjie happy- 
hearted little bird. 

^‘The conditions are very simple, he said; I can 
show them to you in writing. By the desire of the Marquis 
de Bourdon, I gave up all other occupation and employ- 
ment in order that I might spend my whole time in search- 
ing for his niece. 


A KAMELESS SIK. 11 

‘‘ What were you — what was your occupation?^^ she 
asked. 

“ I was a solicitor, without practice; then I became a 
private detective. Some little business that I had managed 
for the marquis attracted his attention and he made me this 
offer. The conditions are plain enough. If I find you, I 
am to communicate with the marquis at once; he who de- 
tests what he calls low marriages, distinctly declares that, 
if you are already married, I am not even to name my 
errand to you; I am to return at once, and the whole mat- 
ter will fall through. In that case the marquis will send 
to France, and try there to find his nearest of kin, and 
make him or her the heir or heiress. He said distinctly 
and clearly that no other record should live of a low 
marriage. But if I found you single and all that he 
hoped you would be, I was to make arrangements for tak- 
ing you to him at once. Your name he knows is Knowles, 
but so soon as you become his adopted heiress you will be 
Lady de Bourdon. 

She caught her breath with a low sigh, her eyes grew 
bright. 

“ What else?^^ she asked, “ what else?’^ 

“ You will be heiress of Fernholme Abbey, and of one of 
the finest fortunes in England. You will have such a 
future as falls to the lot of few people; you will have the 
world at your feet, and you may marry the noblest man in 
England, if you will.^^ 

He saw her face grow pale, while she turned the plain, 
gold ring uneasily on her finger. 

“ And if I should not marry she asked, with downcast 
eyes, and low voice. 

“ You would still be heiress to Fernholme, and would in 
that case have to choose your heir or heiress as you would,^^ 
he replied. 

She looked thoughtfully at the tall, waving trees. 

“ How old is my uncle she asked, suddenly. 

“ He is nearly seventy. There was quite twenty years ^ 
difference between your mother and your uncle; he was a 
man almost when his sister was born. She was brought 
up in the greatest poverty and ran away with the writing- 
master from a house where she gave lessons. 

“ Then he never knew her?^^ said Laure. 

“ Hardly. He remembers her as a little child; but 


12 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


when he came into possession of his fortune, all trace of 
her was quite lost” 

She glanced at him again. 

Are you quite sure/" she said, that there is no mis- 
take that you have not traced the wrong person?"" 

He smiled. 

“I should not trust my whole fortune in any unsafe 
boat,"" he answered. have what must satisfy any 

creature living — the certificate of your grandfather, the 
ruined marquis"s marriage, his death and burial — the certifi- 
cate of your mother"s birth and marriage— then of your 
birth, of your father"s death. After that, with most mi- 
nute and infinite research, I have traced your mother 
through all her wanderings, to each town, until finally she 
settled down in a little cottage here at Kosethorpe. Can 
you tell me how she lived here?"" 

A sudden rush of tears filled the girl"s eyes. 

“ It was hardly to be called living,"" she cried, with sud- 
den passion; “ sometimes we had bread to eat, and some- 
times none. My mother kept a little school; then, some- 
times she found plain sewing to do. We were often 
hungry and often cold, until God raised us up a friend who 
— who helped us. "" 

A friend,"" he repeated. 

Her beautiful face flushed hotly, her lips trembled as she 
answered him; 

Yes, a friend, the truest and best; we were lonely, 
penniless and friendless; he was a friend such as few know. 
Ah, do npt tempt me, for God"s sake do not tempt me. I 
must be loyal, I must be true; do not tempt me, for God"s 
sake."" 

The passionate ring of her words died away, and the 
clear, sweet note of the little bird sounded in its place. He 
looked up with an air of bland surprise. 

‘‘You must not excite yourself,"" he said; ''though of 
course such news takes you quite by storm. I do not quite 
understand. I am not tempting you; I tell you a plain, 
simple story; there are many such; at each great French 
revolution there are high-born men and women who come 
over here, and spend the remainder of their lives in pov- 
erty and toil; they intermarry at times with the lower class, 
more often, indeed, as a rule, they die in exile and the 
name becomes extinct; the number of ruined French nobles 


A NAMELESS SIK* 


13 


who earned a precarious living in England by teaching is 
very great. Your uncle recovered his estates, because he 
happened to render a great service to the then ruler of 
France, and shared also in his political opinions. He was 
too wise to trust his recovered wealth in a country where rev- 
olutions are as common as the changes of seasons. Why do 
you say that I am tempting you? I do not understand. 

Again she hid most carefully the hand on which her wed- 
ding-ring shone; again her eyes dropped from his, and her 
face flushed. 

Why should he care whether I am married or not?^^ 
she asked after a short pause. 

The marquis is naturally anxious; your grandfather 
married a peasant girl, your mother married a poor man of 
common origin; he believes honestly that a few more such 
marriages and the whole race will deteriorate; that is what 
he said to me; I can tell you nothing else. He impressed 
it upon me continually, that if you were married, the whole 
thing was to fall through; if you were single, I was to lose 
no time in taking you to him.^^ 

It seems so wonderful, she said, too wonderful. It 
has come upon me like a thunder-bolt. I wish we had 
known while my mother lived — I wish we had known 
earlier. I — I — 

There she stopped, and the half -formed words died on 
her lips. 

The word temptation still seemed to haunt Mr. Eodway. 

“ I do not quite understand why you should ever think 
that I am tempting you,^^ he said. Of course it is quite 
at your own option. If from any reason of your own, you 
prefer remaining here, you are quite justified in doing so. 
Y"ou spoke of a friend who had been kind to you. I am 
quite sure that if the marquis knew of any one who had 
shown to either you or your mother any attention or con- 
sideration, he would do anything to further his interests in 
life. 

It is not a question of that,^^ she replied, hastily; as 
you say, you do not understand. 

I know that having lived long, perhaps, in this pretty 
village, you have naturally grown to love it; you have made 
friends here, you are attached to the place and the people 
in it. That is all right and natural. It is for you to de- 
cide whether the future will repay you for giving up the 


14 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


present; of that you, and you alone can judge. It is a 
future that falls to the lot of few. You will be rich, beau- 
tiful, honored and feted; you will have money and jewels, 
servants, carriages, horses, dresses, everything that a 
woman ^s heart can desire — everything that can make a life 
bright. You have to think whether this will suit you, or 
whether you prefer your life as it is.^^ 

A smile of something like contempt passed over her face. 

You know that I hate my life as it is,^^ she said. 

I do not know — I purposely refrain from asking any 
questions, lest the marquis in his turn should press ques- 
tions upon me. If I may judge from the cool insolence of 
the lady that came to the door just now, you occupy an in- 
ferior position — one, I should say, full of humiliation to any 
one proud as yourself. You must decide whether you will 
'change this for one of honor and rank, where men and 
women will bow to you. 

I can not decide, she said, with sudden passion. 

‘‘You will when you have time to reflect; when your 
iudgment is cool, yourself calm. 1 shall take no answer 
until then. 

“There is one other thing, continued Mr. Eodway, 
“ that I had almost forgotten, yet it is most important. 
The marquis wishes you to keep all this a profound secret; 
if he finds you all that he hopes to do, he will take you 
abroad for some time, then bring you back to England, and 
introduce you as his niece and heiress; he urges you to keep 
all your story a secret; you must not mention to any 
creature living what I have told you on leaving this place, 
you must leave everything — ^you understand me — every- 
thing; you must give up home, friends, all associations, in 
fact, you must die to the place; it must be as though you 
had never seen it. The Marquis de Bourdon is a proud 
man; he would never tolerate that your story should be 
known; you can see for yourself it would not do, it would 
prevent your success in society, it would always be a draw- 
back; there can be no doubt about it, that if you become 
heiress of Fernholme, you must give up your old life com- 
pletely, as though you lay dead.'’^ 

He paused. She held up her hands with a little Impa- 
tient cry. 

“ I wish that bird would stop singing, she said; “ I can 


A iq'AMELESS SIK. 


15 


not even think with that loud music running through my 
brain. 

‘‘You need not think now; you have plenty of time. 
You know the little town of Saltil, five miles from Kose- 
thorpe; I shall be staying there at the hotel next week; 
come over and give me your answer. You will have had 
time to think by then. 

“ Will you not come here?^^ she asked. 

“ No/^ he replied; “ I would much rather not; I have a 
great respect for the old house of Bourdon, and I do not 
like to hear its heiress spoken to by a woman much her in- 
ferior,^ as though she was a servant — 

“ But Lady Cardin seldom comes here,^^ she interrupted. 

“I would rather you came to me at Sal til. Miss 
Knowles, he said. 

Then he smiled to himself a crafty, cunning smile, as 
once more the young girl hid her wedding-ring. 


CHAPTER III. 

A NOBLE HUSBAND. 

Once more she stood in the little kitchen alone — the 
stranger had gone. The little bird, trilling out its sweet 
soul in song, must have heard what she said, for it flew 
away dismayed to the green kingdom where every note was 
welcome. She drew a chair to the table, and hiding her 
face in her hands sat down to think. 

Was it possible that all this could be true? Only a few 
short hours ago, and she had woke to the usual round of 
daily labor without a thought that time could change her 
destiny, without a thought that before the sun set her 
whole life would be revolutionized. She felt inclined to 
believe it had been the idle dream of a summer’s morning. 
How long she sat there, she never knew. She was roused 
by a loving touch on her shoulder. 

“ Laure,” said her husband, Owen Roden, “ I have 
never seen you sit thinking before, my dear little wife. 
Where is my dinner? I am very hungry, and I have to go 
to Rosethorpe this afternoon. ” 

She started with a little cry of dismay. She had forgot- 
ten all about her husband’s dinner in the excitement of 
the morning. 


16 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


I am so sorry, Owen/^ she said. I quite forgot it.^^ 

He laughed. 

‘‘ The re ^s a model housekeeper — owns that she quite for- 
got her husband ^s dinner. What shall d do nowr^^ 

I will get something ready for you in so short a time 
that you will never know that you had to wait/^ she replied. 

There, in the same kitchen, where she had just heard 
that she was the lawful heiress of a great peer, she busied 
herself in preparing some dinner for her husband. Crisp 
potatoes, new laid eggs, and slices of ham she cooked well, 
and while she was thus occupied, all thoughts of Fernholme 
Abbey, of diamonds, and carriages, of wealth and honor, 
faded away from her. She was Laure Roden, mistress of 
the little cottage, wife of the kindly, honest, handsome man 
who worshiped her. 

‘‘You take no dinner yourself, Laure, he said. 

“ No, I am not hungry, I will have some tea,^^ she an- 
swered; and Owen Roden laughed. 

“ What women — I beg your pardon, Laure — what ladies 
would do without tea, I can not imagine. 

She glanced half wistfully at his handsome, sunburned 
face. 

“ Owen,^^ she said, “ if you did not know me, and did 
iK)t know my history, and met me anywhere, should you 
think that I was a lady?^^ 

“ A ladyr^^ he repeated; “ indeed I should, Laure; 
you are one of Nature^s own gentlewomen. Why, my 
darling, I have seen all kind of ladies at the Hall, and there 
is not one that could be compared to you — not one. 

“ You are quite sure,^"^ she questioned. 

“ I am more than sure; Lady Cardin herself — people 
say she was one of the very lovehest women in England — 
her face is not to be compared to yours. 

“Are you flattering me, Owen?^^ she asked. 

“ Why should I? I always knew it was so when I used 
to walk around your little cottage, longing for one look at 
you; I always said to myself that you were beautiful as a 
young queen, and I only fitted to be your slave; I have 
been your slave ever since. 

“ But,^^ she protested, “ do I look as those real ladies 
look, Owen?^^ 

“ A thousand times better, my darling/^ he answer(^d. 

Do I speak as they speaks' 


A KAMELESS SIl^. 


17 


No, thank Heaven! your voice is sweet and clear as 
the music of a bird; not one among them has such a voice. 
When you move, all sweet music and grace move with 
you; to watch you is like reading a poem, to love you 
makes earth — heaven! I have seen no other woman, 
neither among the rich or the poor, like you.^^ 

That is because you love me, Owen. Tell me, what 
would a stranger think of me?^^ 

If he had any eyes he must think of you as I do, Laure; 
if he were blind, he must worship you from the music of 
your voice and the soft, sweet touch of your white hands. 
I can not judge you from a stranger^ s point of view, but 
you would drive any man mad, as you have driven me."^^ 
You look sane enough,'’^ she answered. 

‘‘ Because I have won you; because I have caught the 
sweetest wild bird, and have caged her in my heart of 
hearts. If I had lost instead of winning you, I should 
have gone mad. 

Her beautiful young face paled as she heard the passion- 
ate words. 

‘‘Is it quite wise to love any one so much as that, 
Owen.^^^ she said. 

“ I do not know about its being wise, but I do know that 
it is natural, he answered, with a light laugh. 

Still she looked earnestly at him. 

“ So many things might happen,^^ she said; “ for in- 
stance, I might die. 

He clasped her in his arms, with a cry of mighty love. 

“ Hie — ^you, my darling, die?^’’ 

“Yes, I might die, Owen; and what then?^^ 

“ I should die with you, my sweet. I have never forgot- 
ten what I saw once — a man lifted up dead from his wife^s 
grave. If you were to die, my darling, before me, I 
should go and throw myself on your grave; I should throw 
niy arms round it, and bnry my face in the grass, and so 
lie there until I died. Heath would not part us for long, 
Laure. 

A slight shudder ran through her slender dainty figure. 
He clasped it the more closely to his arms. 

“ No two men are alike,^^ he said. “ To most is given 
a sweet, vague fancy they call love, which changes and 
varies with its object. To a few is given the one mighty 
jiassion that makes or mars a life. My love is not an aecL 


A KAMELESS SI^ST. 


"18 

dent in my life, not a pastime, not a mere interlude; it is 
my life, and outside it I have no life; so I say, Laure, that 
if I had lost you, I should have gone mad. So I say now 
that if you die, I should stretch myself out on your grave 
and die, too.^^ 

I hope I am not going to die,^^ she said, with a faint, 
quivering smile on her scarlet mouth. 

‘‘ I am sure not,^^ he said. Why have we drifted into 
such a melancholy conversation? Kiss me, and forget all 
about it. I had almost forgotten to tell you that Lady 
Cardin wants to see you; her mania is pet birds, and as 
there is no chance with all these visitors that she will find 
time for herself, she wants you to attend to those three lit- 
tle birds that have been sent to her from Java. 

I do not like Lady Cardin, was the reply. 

Owen laughed. 

Nor do I, particularly; but you will like the birds, 
they are perfect always. 

Her face flushed a little as she answered: 

‘‘I do not like being treated as though I were Lady 
Cardin^s servant either. 

Then the handsome, honest face looked vexed and sur- 
prised. 

Servant. I do not know. I am her paid servant, 
and you share my position. You ought to be a queen, a 
grand lady; but then, you see, my darling, God has placed 
us here. 

I know that — she began, but he interrupted her. 

I shall not always be head -gardener; some day I shall 
have land of my own, and plan beautiful gardens for my 
darling.^ 

Do you think so, Owen?^^ she asked. 

‘‘ Yes, without vanity, Laure. Eemember how I have 
studied all my life; I know the name, story, life, and tem- 
per of every flower or weed that grows. I know Latin quite 
as well as any Oxford scholar. I have Sir Joseph Paxton^s 
example before my eyes; I do not say that I have a tithe of 
his genius, but 1 have talent of my own. I did not tell 
you, but last year Sir Eeuben Moreton offered me three 
hundred a year to take the entire charge of his gardens in 
Wales. But I would not leave Aylmer Woods; I find time 
and means for study here. Now kiss me again, little wife 
— kiss me for all I mean to do in the future/^ 


A KAMELESS SIK. 19 

She threw her white arms round his neck and kissed 
him, then hid her face on his breast with a little moan. 

He fancied she did not like going to the Hall, and ca- 
ressed the bright hair that waved on her shoulders. 

You shall not go to the Hall, if you really dislike it, 
Laure,^^ he said; but she, raising her head with a sigh, 
answered him that the change would do her good, and that 
she would go that afternoon. He was quite content. Then 
he looked anxiously in her face. 

It is not likely,^^ he said, that a rough man like my- 
self should understand a delicate lady-bird like you; but 
there is something in my darling^s face to-day I have 
never seen before. What is it?^^ 

She turned away from him with a quick, sudden flush; 
then she looked at the little clock. 

It is past two, Owen; you must go/^ she said. 

Yes, I must go. I do not like leaving you, Laure. 
How pleased I shall be when I can spend some part of the 
day with you. I shall be back by nightfall. 

He went away, and Laure, following him to the door, 
'' stood and watched him. There were not many flner- 
looking men in England than Owen Koden. His frank, 
handsome face was full of health and activity. One could 
see at once that he was not what society calls a gentleman; 
his hands were not white and useless; there was no affec- 
tation about him, but his face had in it keen refinement. 
There was a promise of power in it. One could judge 
from his appearance that he was far above the average, 
and that he would some day make his mark in the world. 
He was of the Saxon yeoman type — a strong, well-built 
figure, with broad shoulders and a broad chest, carrying 
himself with a certain ease and grace of manner tliat was 
pleasant to see. He had a frank, open face, fair but for 
the sun-stains, with brown hair that grew in picturesque 
clusters. 

Laure watched him as he walked with a quick, swinging 
step; then she fell on her knees, with a sudden, sharp cry. 

Keep me from it, oh, my God!’^ she prayed; do not 
let it come near me. I should be the most wretched, the 
most guilty, the most miserable of sinners if I ever thought 
of it. Let me die rather than sin so grievously. 

She was worn out and tired with the excitement and 


so 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


emotion, and, laying her head on the hard, wooden chair, 
she fell asleep. 

The little clock was striking four when she awoke from 
a confusion of dreams. She remembered Lady Cardin, 
and knew that by this time she ought to be at the Hall. 
She dressed hastily, and walked rapidly through the park. 
The lovely golden sunlight lay all around it; the birds were 
singing; the flowers all in bloom; the sweet, south wind 
whispered all around her. It seemed to her that the morn- 
ing had been but a dream — a dream of ambition, of pride 
and vanity. 

She laughed softly as she said the words “ Laure de 
Bourdon — what a beautiful name!^^ and she so plainly 
dressed, the wife of the head-gardener, a paid servant as 
her husband had said, she was heiress of an estate far more 
valuable than this — who would believe itr If she met any 
one and said to them, ‘‘ I am a great heiress,^’ who would 
believe her? She was Owen Eoden’s wife, and yet, if it 
were all true, what a bewitching dream it was. 

And I have longed for it all my life,^^ she said, all 
my life. Can it be true, it has come now, and is too late?^^ 

The next minute she stood on the threshold of the great 
mansion that had always seemed to her the noblest resi- 
dence in England. 

‘‘ What would Lady Cardin say if I sent in my name as 
Lady Laure de Bourdon ?^^ she thought; and then the door 
was opened, and she stood the humble dependent in the 
great entrance hall. 


CHAPTER IV. 

I SHALL REPAY SCORH EOR SCORH.^^ 

The young person has called about the birds, my 
lady,^^ said the footman, and Laurels face flushed as she 
heard the words. 

There was an innate refinement about her, which had 
always made her a slight object of wonder and suspicion to 
those whom she considered her equals. Any other in her 
place would have answered the footman ^s remarks about 
the beauty of the day, with bright, pleasant words; Laure 
did not even hear them. 

She was shown into the beautiful room where my lady 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


21 


sat reading. Lady Cardin did not even raise her eyes as 
she entered; she laid down her book with a cool inclination 
of the head. 

She thinks I am like the dust under her feet/^ said 
Laure to herself, ‘^and in reality, in truth, I am better 
than she is. 

“ Sit down,^^ said my lady; ‘‘ I have a note to write, 
then I will attend to you. 

She obeyed; she sat down and lost herself in admiration 
of the magnificent room. 

The ceilmg was painted by one of the first artists of the 
day; the hangings were of purple and gold, the carpet so 
thick and soft that no footstep could be heard thereon, the 
pictures were masterpieces of art; from the rich hangings 
came the gleam of marble statues, from the costly jardin- 
ieres came the rose sweet fragrance of the flowers; books, 
music, a thousand beautiful objects lay in mystic confu- 
sion. 

Laure looked at them silently, and a longing, made of 
envy and love for the magnificent room, came over her. 
She longed with her whole soul for that which she saw 
around her. Then she remembered that it was hers; that 
she had but to speak one word, to stretch out her hand, 
and more than this would fall to her lot. Could it be pos- 
sible that she sitting there in such humble guise, awaiting 
the great lady^s pleasure, that she was a far greater lady 
herself? Then she was startled to find Lady Cardin^s eyes 
fixed on her with a peculiar look. 

Her ladyship was secretly thinking how completely that 
beautiful girl looked at home in the midst of her magnifi- 
cent surroundings. My lady was examining her critically, 
the tall figure, so slender and graceful, with its gracious 
curves and harmonious movements, the grace and freedom, 
the grandeur of every gesture, the slender white throat, 
the beautiful shoulders and white shapely arms, the hands 
that were like snow-flakes, despite the hard work she did. 
The wealth of golden-brown hair that defied all order and 
all attempts at restraint, that waved in such luxurious 
masses as would have gladdened the eyes and heart of an 
artist; on to the exquisite face — a face that defies descrip- 
tion as it defied comparison, at once proud and tender, 
dainty and delicate, full of soft patrician beauty, a face 
that might have blushed under the weight of a crown, for 


$2 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


it had all the fire, the poetry, and the dreamy loveliness 
poets give to the face of a queen. 

Lady Cardin watched the bright violet eyes, the scarlet 
mouth, with its beautiful curves and delicious dimples, 
the straight brow that makes the face of any woman beauti- 
ful to see, the white chin, and the complexion, fresh and 
lovely as the leaves of a rose. 

If I had a daughter as beautiful as that,^^ said my lady, 
to herself, I would make her the second woman in Eng- 
land; only the queen should take precedence of her — and 
she is a peasant born!’^ 

She felt angry that this peasant girl, her head-gardener^s 
wife, should have this priceless dower of beauty, while her 
daughters were plain and ungainly as well; it was not 
right or fair. She looked at the lovely face. 

You must have been married very young, she said. 

I was seventeen, my lady — seventeen and three 
months,^^ she answered. 

How long have you been married? asked Lady Cardin. 

‘‘ Five months,^ ^ said Laure. 

So that you are not eighteen yet. I can not think why 
young girls are always in so great a hurry to take the 
troubles of life on themselves. Why did you marry so 
soon?^^ 

I had no home, no mother, no friends, no money; I 
was alone and quite helpless. 

I hope you married for love,^^ said my lady, gravely. 

Laurel’s face flushed again. She felt the impertinence 
of the words. 

I ask you,^^ continued her ladyship, because a girl 
left alone in the world so often marries the first man that 
asks her, and then goes wrong afterward. 

‘‘Goes wrong, said Laure, indignantly. “I do not 
understand. 

“ You know what I mean,^^ said her ladyship, indig- 
nantly. “ Grows tired and discontented, and all that kind 
of thing. 

“ If she only knew,^^ thought Laure, “ what would she 
say — if she only knew?^^ 

“ Your husband is a good man and a clever man,^^ said 
Lady Cardin; “ be kind and attentive to him. I foresee 
that he will make his way up in the w-orld if he has a good 


A NAMELESS SIN. 23 

wife to help him. Now come with me to. see my beauti- 
ful birds from Java/^ 

My lady wore a dress of rich purple velvet with some 
magnificent diamonds. Laure watched her as the rich 
dress swept the ground; she followed her through the mag- 
nificent suite of rooms; she saw all the evidence of un- 
bounded wealth; silken hangings, rare pictures, mirrors, 
lusters, costly fiowers, the most exquisite furniture. She 
went through the broad, beautiful corridors lined with 
pictures and flowers. She saw beautiful women in rich 
dresses'and jewels, and her whole soul was moved by these 
outward signs of magnificence. They went through the 
state drawing-room, where the splendor was so great it 
seemed to take the very breath of her life away. Then they 
came to the conservatories. She quite lost herself in that 
vista of glass fountains and flowers; it was the first time she 
had ever seen them, and the sight overpowered even her 
fear of Lady (Jardin. 

‘‘How beautiful she cried. “I did not know there 
were such places on earth. 

Her ladyship smiled just a little. 

“ Of course not,^^ she said; “ how should you know?^^ 

Again the thought rose to Laure ’s mind: 

“ I mav have a home even more beautiful than this if I 
will."^ 

Some one came to speak to Lady Cardin, so that again 
she had to rest while she waited her ladyship^s pleasure. 
She looked around her. How glorious it was, this vista of 
glass, of shining fountains and blooming flowers; how 
grand to be mistress of a beautiful home like this; to have 
servants waiting the words that fall from one^s lips; to 
have all the wealth of the world4)rought to one’s feet! As 
she sat and watched, the love of the world and its vanities 
entered into her heart — the love so fatal to women, more 
fatal a thousand times than the love of man — the love of 
pomp and of pleasure, of gayety, and wealth: she opened 
her heart to it. She who had knelt only a few hours be- 
fore, praying God to keep the temptation from her, now 
said to herself that this kind of life was the only life worth 
living; that love, honor, duty, and truth held no place by 
the side of this bliss. A little further on a large sheet of 
plate-glass reflected the gorgeous spray of a fountain; she 
walked over to it, and looked critically at herself. She had 


24 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


thought but little of her own beauty before this; now it 
startled her. She saw a queenly figure and a lovely face 
that looked quite in harmony with the beautiful surround- 
ings. 

‘‘ I am better looking than any of the ladies I have seen 
here/^ she said. believe that I could hold my own 
among them; how I should like to try.^^ 

She was lost in a vision of what she should do if ever she 
was mistress of such a palace; how she would pay back the 
haughty insolence of these ladies; how she would reign over 
them, crush them with her own splendor; how she would 
give balls, parties, fetes, and make every hour one of the 
most intense delight, and full of pleasure. She was lost in 
this delicious reverie when a voice near her said: 

‘‘ Pray mind, Mrs. Eoden, you are quite close to my In- 
dian lily, and one touch would spoil 

Then she saw Lady Cardin, followed by a servant carry- 
ing a beautiful gilt cage in his hand. 

These are the birds. Your husband is so clever at 
everything of this kind; he promised me that you should 
look after them; they want keeping very warm, and feed- 
ing with the seeds that Owen Roden will procure for you.^^ 

The man placed the cage in Laurels hand, but my lady 
was not quite pleased with the manner in which she re- 
ceived it. 

You promise me,^^ she said, sharply, ‘‘ that you will 
attend to them? I will reward you very handsomely if you 
can keep them alive. 

“ I do not want any reward, said Laure. I will do 
my duty to them. 

Lady Cardin laughed, not a pleasant laugh. 

It is a novelty to me%t with one so disinterested,^^ she 
said. ‘‘ I hope the birds will not suffer by it.^^ 

Then the interview ended, and Laure retraced her steps 
through the gorgeous rooms, her heart hot with anger and 
wounded pride. 

How I should like to have told her that my name is 
older than hers, and my rank greater she thought. ‘‘ If 
ever I take my place in the world, and should meet either 
my lady or her daughters, I shall be able to repay scorn for 
scorn. 

Once more she was out in the woods, leaving the mag- 
nificent house, with its glow of wealth, behind her; but 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


25 


this time there was more in her heart than there had been 
before. She walked through the sunlight, and she had no 
thought for the trees or the flowers, for the birds or the 
sweet long grass. How haughty and insolent Lady Cardin 
was to her; how she longed to repay it! That she, a Bour- 
don, should be the paid servant of this womau! 

‘"If she knew,^^ thought Laure, with a sigh — “if she 
only knew!^^ 

It had never occurred to her that there was any degrada- 
tion in being the paid servant of another, but now the fact 
seemed to strike her with sudden, keen, unendurable pain. 
She hastened home, and put the little birds safely away;: 
then there was a lire to light, and tea to prepare for her 
husband. Only yesterday how blithely she had sung while 
going about her work — how she had made dainty little 
cakes, and had prepared some golden honey, some ripe 
fruit, and had made quite a little feast for him. How 
Owen had laughed with delight as he saw the pretty table, 
and told her he should want no sugar in his tea if she would 
just look into it. 

How far off that time seemed, and yet it was only yes- 
terday, only twenty-four hours since. Now she was not in- 
clined to work, she wanted only to sit down and think about 
the wonderful event which had happened, the story she 
had heard, the life which had opened to her. How could 
she realize it? How could she give her mind to those-ser- 
vile duties, when that brilliant temptation lay before her? 

Then her husband^s voice aroused her. He had come 
home for his tea, and his wife was dreaming by the win- 
dow, and no fire burning in the grate. 


CHAPTEE V. 

THE EIGHT AND THE WEONG. 

It was but a trifle, but she always remembered how kind 
he was to her that evening. He said no word of reproach 
when he saw the empty table and the fire less grate; he 
looked at her with infinite pity and concern. 

“ You are not well, Laure, he said; “ that long walk 
has tired you.'^^ 

He unlocked the door of the pretty little parlor, a room 
sacred to cowslip wine and white tidies, and made his 




A KAMELESS SlK. 


beautiful young wife lie down on the couch to rest; then 
with his own strongf hands he waited on her, made her tea, 
soothed and caressed her, wondering what had brought 
that white worn look to his darling’s face, wondering what 
had shadowed the bright beauty. 

Then he sat down by her side and talked to her in his 
honest, hearty fashion. How kind, how gentle, how good 
he was. Who else in the wide world would love her like 
this? Then, with a sudden cry of great remorse, she flung 
her arms round his neck. 

Help me to be good and true, Owen. My soul is 
weak, yours is strong. ” 

It would seem to be like helping an angel to help you,^^ 
he said, wondering at her manner, while she lay with her 
head on his breast, saying over and over again to herself 
that she would rather die than leave him. 

Next morning, when she awoke, the sun was shining 
full into her room, the roses were laughing at the window, 
the birds were singing in the trees, and she knelt down by 
the pretty white bed, praying God over and over again to 
keep the temptation from her, and to save her from her- 
self. 

Owen thought he had never seen her so good, so gentle, 
so kind; and yet there was a subtle change in her beauty 
that he could not understand. He left her, for he had to 
spend the whole of the day at Eosethorpe. 

Then she was alone again with the greatest temptation 
of her life. The little cottage had grown too small for 
her. She put on. her hat and went out of doors, out in the 
sunlit woods. She sat down under the shade of a great 
spreading oak-tree to think it over. 

There came to her then the memory of a picture she had 
seen once called the Two Standards.'’^ One standard was 
that of the lawful king, the other was that of his traitorous 
foe — the world was ranging itself under one or the other. 

‘^It is so with me,” she said to herself, right and 
wrong lie before me. I can choose but one of them, there 
can be no compromise. Which shall I choose?” 

The right she knew — she was Owen 'Roden’s wife. His 
great, honest heart rested in her, her love was his life; he 
had no other thought, she was all the world to him. She 
was married to him, and her vows were taken for life; un- 
til death broke them she was his, and his only, for better 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


27 


for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness or health; 
there was no power living, there was nothing that could 
break those vows for her. The right thing was to give her 
answer at once, and to say that all the gold in the world, 
all the rank and riches, the pleasures would not tempt 
her from her husband^s side. That was the right, that 
was what she ought to do; there could be no excuse, no 
compromise. It was a terrible temptation, one she must 
not tamper with or play with. 

She knew the wrong too — it was to tamper with tempta- 
tion until it conquered her. She knew where it would lead 
her — to steal away in silence and secrecy from her hus- 
band^s side, to leave him to the living life of anguish and 
the slow death of shame, to break her vows, to falsify her- 
self, to blight her whole life, and then the end. 

There must be an end — every green leaf rippling in the 
sunlight, every bird singing in the trees, every flower 
blooming in the sweet, fresh morning air, every blade of 
grass shining with dew-drops must die. 

She was young and beautiful, the life was warm in her 
veins, her face was flushed with health, yet, like the leaves 
and the birds, she must die. 

It was all well enough in this world, but what of the 
next? No nonsense of disbelief had ever reached her. She 
was simple enough and wise enough to know that a good 
life had its crown in Heaven, and that a bad life met its 
just punishment. 

She made no false excuses to herself, she knew that if 
she deliberately chose the wrong, she need never raise her 
eyes with hope again to the bright blue heavens. 

Then she tried to map out in her mind the two lives. 

If she remained there would be the sweet, simple coun- 
try life, with its innocent pleasures, the love and devotion 
of a husband who worshiped her; the calm, sweet con- 
sciousness of having done her duty; then, perhaps the 
pleasure of seeing her husband work himself up in the 
world, and make a place for himself there. That was the 
bright side; then there was the hourly drudgery, the details 
of the dull, monotonous domestic life; the poverty, the 
privations, the thousand wants; the patronage and pride 
of Lady Cardin; the fact that her great beauty — and she 
was only just beginning to see how great that beauty was 
— must be hidden always. 


2S 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


Then there was the other picture painted for her in such 
dazzling colors — the life that awaited her if she went away. 
It would be a sharp pain, she would suffer and her hus- 
band would suffer; but after a time he might forget her 
and even be happy with his books, his flowers and all that 
he loved so well. 

And she — well, it was the wondrous dazzle of a golden 
light. She would be rich, and all her life she had longed 
so intensely for riches. She could brighten her rare beauty 
with jewels and dress, she could have carriages, servants, 
everything, in fact, that her heart most desired and longed 
for. She would taste the pleasures of life, for the world 
would be at her feet. * 

A dazzling picture — it was worth some suffering, some 
pain; it was the grandest day-dream that had ever come to 
any woman. 

She rose from her seat under the spreading oak-tree with 
a long, low sigh. She loved life, wealth, and pleasure so 
well, it seemed cruel that she should have the chance of 
securing them, now that it was all too late. 

She resolved to go and look at the little house where her 
mother had lived. 

I wonder, she said to herself, “ if my mother were 
living, what she would counsel me to do?^' and the answer 
came straight from her own heart: Stay with your hus- 
band, no matter how you are tempted to leave him.^^ 

She walked through the woods and the pretty lanes that 
led to Rosethorpe. The little cottage where she and her 
mother had lived so long was just outside the town. It 
had but three rooms and in one of them Mrs. Knowles had 
a school. Laure shuddered as she remembered the small 
children with their torn books. She thought of her moth- 
er's face, always sweet and calm, with its look of firm, 
sweet endurance. 

‘‘ I could never be as good as she was,^^ cried the girl; 

my heart and soul cry out for a thousand things that she 
never missed. 

She leaned against the palings of the little garden, watch- 
ing the small latticed windows. Here, in these rooms, her 
mother had lived and died — her mother, who had suffered 
such extremity of poverty, yet who was in reality a high- 
born lady, a descendant of the De Bourdons. What a 
strange fate! There was one thing she could not help 


A iq-AMBLESS SI]^. 


‘ 29 

thinking — her mother had a good life, and she did not* 
doubt that she was now at the foot of the great White 
Throne. Should she lead, a life likely to take her there? 

She bowed her head over the little flower-covered palings, 
and the tears fell from her eyes. 

Day by day the temptation grew terrible and more strong 
to her; day by day the contest between good and bad, right 
and wrong, grew longer and fiercer. She took no ordinary 
precautions. There were times when she was tempted to 
tell her husband all, and ask him to shield her against her- 
self. She did not, because she felt quite sure that the first 
hint he received of it would put it to an end forever. He 
would never lose his hold on his beautiful young wife, 
whom he loved so tenderly. 

Day by day the details, the economy, the privations of 
her life became more and more unendurable every time she 
had work to do — fires to light, rooms to clean, clothes to 
wash; her whole heart and soul rose in fierce rebellion every 
time Lady Cardin, with her proud patronage, her haughty 
manner, came across her; she rebelled against it until the 
daily, hourly warfare became too much for her, and she 
knew that she could endure it no longer. 

Perhaps the keen, crafty, subtle man had reckoned on 
this; perhaps he felt quite sure that left to herself she must 
fall, she must yield to the temptation. hJhe must give 
way. That might be one of the reasons why he had im- 
pressed such secrecy on her. She began now to argue with 
herself, to find out reasons why she must be justified in 
going away; reasons that she chose to think made her sin 
less deadly. 

She said to herself that when she married him she did 
not know herself; that she was a stranger even to herself; 
that had she known her name, her history, her prospects, 
she would never have married him; perhaps that in some 
measure would excuse her, would palliate her sin and 
make it less. She said to herself that she was a lady of 
birth, one of a noble race, quick to feel and resent, quick 
to love, quick to suffer, and that, as time went on she 
would be so utterly wretched that he would be more miser- 
able with her than without her. After all it was no mar- 
riage — so she tried to make herself believe. 

Owen Eoden had believed that he was marrying a poor, 
penniless country girl, whereas in reality she was the heir- 


A KAMELESS SIIS’. 


30 * 

*ess of the De Bourdons. If he had known her real name, 
her real rank and title, he would no more have asked her 
in marriage than he would have asked Lady Cardin. 

Yet, after all this she wept passionate, bitter tears, for 
she knew that all the false reasoning in the world could 
never make wrong right; that a woman must cling to her 
husband, and that no amount of false reasoning could make 
a sin anything but a sin. 


CHAPTEK VI. 

HOW HE WOH HER. 

It was not many years since Augusta Knowles had en- 
tered the town of Kosethorpe, holding her little daughter 
by the hand. She was a gentle, timid woman, with noth- 
ing but sad memories clinging round her. Her mother 
was an English peasant, and she had inherited far more of 
her nature than of her princely father^s. Their home had 
always been the very epitome of poverty; she could remem- 
ber nothing else. It seemed to her that her father was an 
old gray-haired man when she was a child; of him she re- 
membered nothing but that he was always sad. She re- 
membered her mother — a beautiful, active peasant woman, 
with a bad temper and a loud, shrill tongue; she could 
dimly remember a great hush which fell over the cottage, 
and people telling her that her father was dead. Then 
came a long vista of sad, sorrowful years, when her mother 
scolded and upbraided her and wore her life away with 
complaining and longing for the absent son who had gone 
away from home in his early youth. When Augusta, full 
of wonder for a brother she had never seen, would ask 
questions about him, her mother ^s answer was always: 

Do not talk about him, child; he was twenty years old 
when you were born. Indeed, I can not think what you 
came into the world at all for. Do not talk of him; he has 
forgotten his mother. 

So the grown-up brother, in some far-off land, the name 
of which she did not know, was a myth to her; he had no 
part or parcel in her life. When she was twenty-five years 
of age she went to a school somewhere near London to 
take charge of the wardrobe of the younger children, and 
there she met John Knowles. Out of sheer opposition her 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


31 


mother forbade her to marry him; but in this Augusta 
would not be controlled. She married John Knowles, the 
writing-master, and went with him to London. Her 
mother died, and the girl never returned to her birthplace; 
it had not one bright memory for her; she never cared to 
see it again. If she had gone back she would have heard 
of all the incessant inquiries her brother made about her, 
of the rewards offered to any one who would find her. But 
she never went back; and so she never heard anything of 
it. No one knew she had married, where she had gone, or 
anything at all about her. She was lost to every one but 
John Knowles. 

They struggled on for a few years. Laure was born, 
and John Knowles named her after one of his pupils; but 
even as she lay in her cradle, he would call his wife to look 
at her, and wonder whence she had that daintily lovely 
face. He died; and Augusta, weary of life, and every- 
thing in it, resolved to leave the great city and find a home 
where she could live in the fresh air and the golden sun- 
light. 

She tried many places but liked none until she reached 
Eosethorpe, and there she said to herself she would like to 
live and die. She took the little cottage and worked hard 
for herself and her child. She was a good woman, true of 
soul, tender of heart; she was religious and earnest; she 
did her duty; she tried her best; she worked hard; she kept 
little Laure well dressed, well fed, and contrived to send 
her to school; the years of Laurels childhood were smooth 
enough. 

Then th^ mother^s strength failed and living became a 
difficult matter for them. She grew nervous and fright- 
ened, for she saw Laure growing up with a beauty so rare, 
so delicate, so wonderful in its type, that she was miserable 
over her. The strength of her limbs was fast failing her; 
the light of her eyes was growing dim; the patient, sorely 
tried heart had but little life left. 

Food grew scarce; there was so little that either mother 
or daughter could do; yet nothing troubled her so much as 
when she looked on the face of her beautiful child; what 
would become of her when she was dead? Beauty was a 
most excellent thing when the girl who possesses it has moth- 
er, father, friends; but it was a deadly gift, she knew, to 
one who would be like Laure, friendless anTl alone. It was 


32 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


then when want and privation had laid the little home bare, 
when anxiety for Laurels future was turning her mother^s 
hair gray, that Heaven sent them a friend — that Owen 
Eoden came like the good and true man he was to the res- 
cue. 

He came first to the little cottage, attracted by a rare 
fern growing in the little garden, and Augusta liked him 
at once; he was so open, so frank, so honest. He told her 
all his own story — how he had been born with an intense 
love for flowers and had given his whole life to the study of 
them. He was a botanist of no mean skill; and Lady Car- 
din offered him a post as head-gardener at Aylmer Park. 

He told her all his history; how his father was a farmer, 
and wanted him to be the same; but that he had no in- 
clination, and when his father saw the bent of his mind 
wisely yielded and sent him to study the art of gardening. 
He told her with no little pride and glee that he was writ- 
ing a book on flowers; he spoke of them so earnestly — of 
their lives, their characteristics, their manners, their pretty 
airs and graces, until Augusta would grow frightened and 
say there was something weird-like about his words. Then 
he saw Laure and loved her. The frank, handsome, kind- 
ly young man loved her with all his heart from the mo- 
ment he saw her; she was never once absent from his 
thoughts or his heart. He loved with the one great pas- 
sion of his life, and it was no ordinary love. 

He was so kind to them, gifts of flowers and fruit, every- 
thing that was useful and needful he lavished on them; he 
deprived himself of almost the needs of life that Augusta 
might have meat and wine. She ceased almost to <thank him 
at last, for his benefits became so numerous she seemed to 
do nothing else. 

The crowning of her happiness was when he asked her to 
give him Laure for his wife; the dainty, lovely girl was not 
quite seventeen, and beautiful as an opening rose. No 
woman ever thanked Heaven more than she did, when she 
knew that the one great danger she dreaded no longer ex- 
isted, that her beautiful child would have a husband to 
protect her. Once or twice she did deplore that with all 
her beauty Laure would never be anything but a poor 
man^s wife, that her great loveliness must always be hid- 
den by her great poverty; yet it was a blessing to think 
that she would Se safe. To Augusta there had never come 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


33 


the knowledge of her illustrious birth. She had always 
had an idea that there was more or less of a mystery in her 
father^s life, but she had never even suspected its real nat- 
ure. Laure would be safe, and the mother died happy in 
that conviction. 

How good Owen Eoden was to her during her last illness 
could not be told; Tf he had been her own son he could not 
have done more for her; and Laure ’s loving heart went out 
to him in deepest gratitude. Her mother died with her 
tired head resting on Owen^s breast, her hand locked in 
his. 

And then, when some men would have betrayed her, 
some forsaken her, he treated her with the gentle deference 
due to a queen, made a home for her, married her, and 
took her there. Was there any love like his? She could 
imagine none. How he had wooed her; surely no mortal 
woman had ever been so gently, so delicately, so gallantly 
won; his courtship, as the country people called it, seemed 
to have been all flowers; there was no morning that he did 
not bring them to her, each one having its own little story 
to tell; he took her out in the gloaming and told her all 
the sweet, fanciful legends he had been so long in collect- 
ing; no princess wiis ever more daintily wooed and won. 

He was so strong and so gentle, so proud and so hum- 
ble, so much her master yet so much her slave, it was no 
wonder that she loved him and looked up to him with awe 
and respect. All these thoughts, these memories of by-gone 
hours came to her one morning when she was out with her 
husband, and watched his strong hands tending the deli- 
cate blossoms. How strong and brave and gentle he was. 
Surely if this proud marquis saw him he would relent, he 
would not wish her to give up her husband. She tried to 
fancy him at Fernholme, but she could not; the strong, 
stalwart figure with its vigorous movements, the handsome, 
honest, sunburned face would be out of harmony in that 
gilded palace; he would be out of place with white-handed 
aristocrats and useless dandies. Her heart wavered as she 
watched him. Who was like him, brave and gentle, ten- 
der and strong? who would ever have such love, such un- 
wearied devotion for her? 

‘‘You are thinking about me, Laure, said her hus- 
band. “ 1 know by the look in your eyes.^^ 

Her face flushed, then paled. 

2 


34 


A KAMELESS SIN. 


Yes, I was thinking of you; I was saying to myself 
there was no one in the wide world like you.^^ 

Why, my darling/^ he cried, with delight, if yoii are 
pleased with me I am happier than a king.''^ 

Yet as she w^atched him more closely it came home to 
her more and more surely that he would never take his 
place among those white-handed aristocrats; he looked too 
earnest, too cheery, too full of vitality; she could never 
fancy him lounging in a drawing-room, talking nonsense to 
fine ladies; whatsoever he did must be e^nestly done, 
must be always thoroughly done. He would never make a 
man of fashion, a fine gentleman. 

He looked at her again with a smile on his lips. 

You are still studying me,^^ he said. 

Then he left the little weakly blossoms and coming to 
her, kissed her face and hands. 

My darling is studying me,*^^ he said. When you 
look at me with that intent gaze, Laure, I feel quite nerv- 
ous; there is always a lurking idea in my mind that I am 
not good enough for you!’^ 

He wondered at the sudden passion with which she seized 
his hand and carried it to her lips. She was saying to her- 
self could she ever leave him? and if she did what would 
happen to him? Could she leave this great loving heart 
that knew no other thought save love for her? 


CHAPTER VIL 

A SIN TVOKSE THAN MUEDER. 

One morning when Owen Roden came to his dinner his 
wife saw a look of unusual sadness on his face; he was 
more silent, more reserved than usual. Laure saw that 
something had disturbed him. With a woman^s true tact 
she waited until he sat under the leafy vine, the song of the 
birds making sweetest music in bis ears. Perhaps her con- 
science disturbed her a little. She looked at him, wonder- 
ing if he had heard anything about her, then calling herself 
stupid for the thought — how could he? Then why did he 
look distressed? She went up to him timidly as he sat on 
the pretty rustic seat; she spoke to him gently, and there 
was a wistful fear in her eyes. 


A KAMELESS Sm. 


35 

‘‘ You have been grieved over something, Owen,^^ she 
said, what is it?^^ 

He roused himself and laid his hands caressingly on the 
beautiful head. 

I am deeply grieved, Laure; but I would rather not 
tell you why,^^ he replied. 

Womaii'iike, those very words piqued her; that he should 
not want her to know a thing was a matter of course, an 
immediate reason why she should know it. She touched 
his face with those soft lips of hers and said: 

‘‘ Tell me.^" 

It is hardly a proper story for you to hear, sweet,^^ he 
said, believing in his honest, simple fashion that the evil of 
the world was a dead letter to Laure; knowing too that if 
she expressed a wish he was utterly powerless to refuse it. 

I went this morning to Martin Chapman ^s and found him 
in the greatest trouble and despair. 1 hardly like to say 
the words to you, but his wife — you have heard me say how 
poor Martin loved his wife — she has run away from him.^^ 

The words struck her like the shame of a terrible blow. 

Eun away,"'^ she gasped; ‘‘ why, OwenP^ 

“I can not tell you;, some wretched story of passion and 
sin. She has left a little child only tln^ee years old. If 
you could have but seen Martini's face.^^ 

‘‘ Eun away, she repeated; she could not get beyond 
these words. She saw her husband’s strong hands clinched 
until great red marks came. 

“ Eun away, yes.. It is a cruel thing that such things 
must be — a cruel scandal that such women live — a cruel 
blow to an honest man; fancy the woman you have loved 
better than all the world — the wife of your heart, the 
mother of your children — running away. Bah, I hate my- 
self for uttering the words.” 

She trembled before the strong passion and the just 
wrath. 

What will Martin do?” she asked. 

. Owen’s face flushed a deep red, as it did in moments of 
great emotion. 

Do,” he repeated, I know what I should do were I 
in his place!” 

She saw the veins in his forehead swell, his strong hands 
clinch themselves, the fire in his eyes deepen and darken. 

What would you do, Owen?” she asked; and but that 


36 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


he was absorbed in Martinis sorrow he would have noticed 
the fear in her voice. 

Do, my darling, I would kill her first and slay myself 
afterward, that is what I would do. The air should never 
be breathed, the earth never burdened by the woman who 
betrayed me/^ 

But, Owen, that would be murder, she said, her heart 
beating fast and her lips growing white. 

‘‘Murder! there are worse and far more cruel things 
than murder he cried. “ What is the death of a man^s 
body compared with the torture of a broken heart — the 
mortal peril of his soul? I tell you, Laure, the woman 
who deliberately breaks the heart of a man, blights his honor 
and his fair name, commits a murder ten thousand times 
more deadly and cruel than she who stabs him to the heart 
or gives him poison to drink. I am young, but I have 
seen misery worse than death caused by the light wanton 
fancies of women. I say it would be a good thing if every 
woman who is deserting her husband were struck dead 
on the threshold of his home. 

She shuddered a little and drew nearer to him. 

“ You are very strict, Owen,^^ she said. 

“ No, my beautiful darling, I am not strict; but men do 
expect purity and goodness from women. 

She bent her head until her beautiful face was hidden on 
his breast, then she stole one white arm round his neck. 

“ So, if I left you,^^ she said, slowly, “ you would kill 
rne?^^ 

He looked up angrily. 

“ You — for Heaven^s sake, Laure, do not class yourself 
with that woman — do not speak of yourself in that way; it 
is a sacrilege; I will not listen.'’^ 

She spoke with trembling lips and in an unsteady voice 
as she answered him. 

“ If we were ever to quarrel, or if anything happened, 
and I ran away — nothing about love — but suppose I left you 
for any — we will say worldly advantage — should you kill 
me?^^ 

“ I wish you would not talk about such things, Laure; 
that will never happen, thank Heaven. 

“ But if it did,^^ she persisted, “ should you kill me, 
Owen?’^ 

‘■‘ Kill you, my darling? Ah, no, nover, I may say 


A l^AMELESS 37 

such things; but I could never hurt one hair of your dear 
head — never^^ 

Then what would you do?^^ she asked. 

Follow you like a dog, to the world ^s end, my darling, 
and die humbly at your feet,^^ he answered her, for I love 
you with the greatest and most patient love man ever felt 
for woman. But, Laure, you must not say these things; 
they sound like desecration to me. I can not endure 
them.^^ 

‘Toor Martin,^' she said, gently, and then she was silent 
for some time, with her face hidden on her husband '’s 
breast. 

Could she ever leave him? Was there anything in the 
wide world so sweet, so dear, so priceless, as this faithful 
love? 

AVhat was money? What was wealth, rank, title, honor, 
pleasure? Less than nothing; love was heaven, and heaven 
love; would anything that could be given to her compen- 
sate for the loss of this dear love? 

Ah, no, a thousand times no; she flung her arms round 
his neck and kissed him again and again. 

I will never leave you, my darling, she cried; noth- 
ing shall ever take me from you!^^ 

‘‘I know it,^^ he said, gently. I have never even 
dreamed of your leaving me. I wish that I had not told 
you that foolish story, it has troubled you very much; for- 
get it, my darling; the foolish ways of foolish women need 
never concern you. I thought to myself this morning 
when I saw that strong man, beaten down by his grief and 
agony like a child, how very few men had a wife like 
mine. I do homage to your purity, your truth, your loy- 
alty, as I do homage to your beauty, my love; I have never 
doubted you; I shall never doubt you; death and 5oubt 
will come to me together. 

ISio, she would never leave him; she swore it while his 
strong arms clasped her to his honest heart — too honest 
even to doubt her; she swore it while his face was bent 
over hers, and he kissed her. She would never leave him; 
fortune might tempt her; rank, riches, pleasure might 
beckon, but she would never go — never; she would be 
faithful to him while she lived, so help her Heaven, she 
said. 

So for two whole days she thrust that horrible tempta- 


38 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


tion from her. She went to her niother^s grave, and, part- 
ing the long grass, told her that she had been tempted 
almost beyond her strength, but that she had trampled the 
temptation under foot and would have none of it. 

When the church bells chimed on Sunday she went 
with Owen to the pretty gray church. She sat where the 
light from the stained glass windows fell full on her face, 
where the sweet voices of the children fell on her ear; and 
she thanked God that she had tramjiled the temptation 
under-foot, that she was still by Owen^s side, Ovven^s faith- 
ful, loving wife. 

She stood in the green church-yard when the service was 
over, and looking at the peaceful graves her heart grew 
still with a deep feeling of content. 

I thank Heaven, she said,‘‘ that I have not forfeited 
the right to die in peace and sleep here.^^ 

She was so kind, so gentle, so loving that Owen was 
more enchanted than ever. So the weeks passed. 

Then came a beautiful morning, when the air was full of 
fragrance and the lovely, laughing, sunlit air full of 
beauty. Owen had left her early, and she was starching 
the clothes. While she was occupied with her work, two 
gentlemen came up to the door; they wanted to see her 
husband on business. One of them. Lord Farnham of 
Farnham Court, had just received some very costly and 
precious plants from abroad; he wanted Owen Foden to 
see them. There was no man in that part of the country 
so clever and skillful over flowers. 

Both looked up in surprise at the beautiful girl who came 
to the door. 

Lord Farnham asked if he could see Owen Roden; aud 
she answered, gently: 

My husband is not at home.^^ 

She blushed crimson as both gentlemen, with an air of 
profound respect, doffed their hats and bowed. 

‘‘ I did not know that Mr. Roden was married, said 
Lord Farnham. May I step inside and leave a note for 
him telling him what I want?^*' 

She placed chairs for them and then went into the pretty 
parlor, to And pen, ink and paper for the note. 

They were gentlemen, both of them, and men of honor; 
they would have kept silence had they known that she was 
compelled to hear every word they said; they would have 


A KAMELESS SIN. 89 

kept silence, above all, had they known what effect their 
words would have on Owen Rodents wife. 

What a beautiful girl,^*^ said Lord Farnham. I do 
not knovv that I have ever seen a more daintily beautiful 
face.^^ 

‘‘ I call it a sin to let such a face be hidden in this little 
place, was the answer. ‘‘ That girl would set all London 
on fire. 

Indeed she would. It is a case of blooming unseen. I 
must say that it seems a sad thing to hide a face like that.^^ 
And those words sunk deep into the mind and heart of 
Laure Roden. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

THE WOMAN WHO HESITATES. 

A LITTLE acorn produces a great oak tree; a few tiny 
seeds bring forth great waving fields of corn; a small leaven 
ferments whole bushels of flour. In the same way these 
words had fallen in Laure Rodents heart and had taken 
root there ; how long they were in so doing, who shall say? 
how long they lay dormant, then slowly and by degrees 
began to take root and flourish, who shall say? They did 
so; their poison was slow and gradual, but sure. 

She began by comparing herself with the others she met; 
by saying to herself that it was really a great pity that a 
face like hers should be hidden in that solitary cottage, 
with only one man to admire. The evil spirit of vanity 
entered first, and took possession of her; she thought more 
of her beauty than she had ever done; she spent whole 
hours in dressing the wondrous wealth of rippling hair; she 
went through the streets of Rosethorpe looking with keen 
eyes at every woman^s face, then owning to herself that 
there was none so fair as her own. Yet the change in her 
was so gradual no one perceived it; even Owen was quite 
blind to it. Having once decided to her own satisfaction 
that she had trampled the temptation under foot, she grew 
careless over it; having once settled finally and firmly that 
she would not go, that she would not leave her husband, 
she began to think what would have happened if she had 
gone, how she should have enjoyed this pleasure, this 
gayety, and she was not wise enough to see that these 


40 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


thoughts were but a continuation of the temptation, and 
that in yielding to them, she was yielding to it. 

After lying awake through the whole of a summer^s 
night dreaming of the grand inheritance that might haye 
been hers, dreaming of jewels and dresses, fancying her 
own gorgeous beauty in most perfect array, it was hard to 
get up and light fires, to go through the small details of 
domestic drudgery; to find herself not much more than 
‘‘ a hewer of wood and a drawer of water. 

By slow, sure, but certain degrees the temptation gained 
power over her; all the more sure and subtle that she was 
quite unconscious of it; day by day the home duties grew 
more intolerable. 

My hands are growing quite coarse and red,^^ she said 
one day to her husband, and he looked at her in amaze. 

‘‘They are always the most beautiful hands in the 
world, he said; “and what you call ‘ coarse, ^ that is, • 
traces of toil, I consider a finer ornament than gems for 
any woman^s hands. 

“ You do not understand, she said, quietly turning 
away. How should he understand? 

Another quick and sudden impulse that helped her on 
the road was this: She was walking one morning on the 
high-road that led to Eosethorpe, when a large riding party 
from the park overtook her. She saw beautiful women in 
closely fitting riding-habits, holding jeweled whips in their 
well-gloved hands, mounted on the finest horses. She saw 
gentlemen riding, like the cavaliers of old, by their side; 
she saw ladies in luxurious carriages, and her heart beat as 
she saw them. 

Every man as he rode past gave her a look of admiration 
as she stood there that summer morning, under the rip- 
pling foliage of the tall elm-trees, waiting for the long cav- 
alcade to pass; she looked the emblem of youth and beauty. 
Lady Cardin rode last, a handsome distinguished man by 
her side, and as they passed by her Laure heard the gentle- 
man say, in a quiet tone of voice: 

“ Who is that?’^ 

Lady Cardin smiled as she answered: 

“ No one — only one of the servants on the estate. 

Her face flushed hotly, her soul rebelled against the 
words. 


A iq'AMELESS SIIT. 41 

I am no servant/^ she cried aloud. I am a De Bour- 
don, a lady born to the purple, even as she is/^ 

But no one heard the words; they fell unheeded on the 
summer wind. She stood quite still watching the grace- 
ful movements of the ladies, watching the proud gallop of 
the thorough-breds, watching the attention of the gentle- 
men. 

‘‘I might have that and more/ ^ she said. ‘‘I could 
shine them all down if I were to leave Owen.-^^ 

It was but leaving Owen; she had no other claim, no 
other ties, nothing else to bind her; it was but leaving 
Owen.^^ She thought of his words: 

I should follow you like a dog and die humbly at your 
feet.^^ 

How everything had gone' wrong in her life; if she had 
heard her true story only one year ago, she would have 
never married; but now — 

Then, if Owen were but different — he was so honest, so 
earnest, so clever; but nothing could make him into what 
people called a gentleman; in the true sense of the word he 
was one; yet to attempt to polish him, to make him con- 
form to the rules of society would be*worse than useless; it 
could not be done; he would always speak the plain unvar- 
nished truth; he would always laugh loudly when he was 
pleased; he would call things by their right names; and he 
had plain, old-fashioned ideas of men^s truth and women ^s 
purity. There was no one, perhaps, in the fine world of 
fashion to compare with him, yet in that world he could 
have no place. 

From that hour it seemed as though she went down; she 
had ceased to think what she would have done had this rich 
inheritance been hers, and began now to lament that she 
had lost the opportunity. 

A thought came to her more dangerous and more subtle 
even than the temptation, and it was that she might go for 
a time. She had so intensely longed all her life to see 
something of the world and its pleasures, to enjoy riches, 
to wear beautiful dresses, it was quite foolish to throw away 
the entire chance. She might go for a time, just to see 
what it was like, and then come back. She said this to 
herself, yet she knew in her heart that if ever she tasted 
the sparkling wine of life, she should never come back to 


42 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


its ties. Slowly, by degrees, surely she drifted into the 
very sin she had sworn never to commit. 

She would go and see what it was like, she would have 
just a few weeks of this fairy life, when she could come 
back, and Owen would not mind a few weeks; yet even as 
she said it a certain conviction lay in the depth of her heart, 
that to Owen^s home as Owen's wife she would never re- 
turn again. 

She would go on Tuesday — that was the day on which 
Owen was always absent twelve hours — he attended the 
market at Eosethorpe. She could go in the morning and 
he would not find out the fact of her absence until night; 
she could walk to Saltil — that would be better than going 
by train or by coach, there would be less trace of her. She 
had decided to go, yet the thought of it pierced her heart 
like the sharpest sword. She dare not think of Owen's 
grief, she solaced herself by thinking it was only for a time; 
he was a strong, brave man, he would not miss her for a 
time; she would not think of it, for if she did she could not 

She was no model of perfection, this beautiful, mother- 
less girl, and there were many things to plead for her. This 
was the one sin of her life, the one great error for which she 
suffered most severely, yet there were excuses for her. She 
had the fine patrician spirit of an ancient race, she had its 
love of luxury, its thirst for pleasure, its love of ease, its 
worship of the artistic and the beautiful ; she had its fire 
and passion, its pride and ambition; she had its hatred of 
dry, monotonous detail, its contempt of servitude; and 
against all this she had nothing but the sense of duty, the 
knowledge of right and wrong, and the love of conscience. 
All her life she had rebelled against her poverty and ob- 
scurity; she had longed for the brighter side of existence, 
and now there was such a chance as she had never dreamed 
of having. 

That is all the excuse that can be offered for the greatest 
sin and the most cruel wrong any woman can commit. 

Tuesday morning came; she had driven the thought of it 
from her; she would not remember what her husband must 
suffer, she would not think of his pain or his anguish, she 
would only say to herself that she was coming back very 
soon, he would not be unhappy long. The sun woke her 
on that Tuesday morning; it had never been so bright; 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


43 


surely the birds had never sung so sweetly, the roses had 
never bloomed so fairly; she lay quite still for some time 
watching them as they swayed in the western wind; never 
again would she w^e in that pretty white chamber, with 
the roses peeping in at her window, and the peace of God 
in her heart — never again. 

Life held brilliant hours for her; she was to become one 
of the most brilliant women in England, but the peace and 
the rest she lost that morning never came to her again — 
never again. 

As she rose she said to herself it was for the last time 
there. Her face was white as marble, her hands trembled, 
everything seemed strange and weird-like; she knelt by 
Owen^s side while they said prayers together, and when 
they had finished he kissed her, saying: 

Thank God for the gift of my dear wife^s love.^^ 

For the last time she fed the little birds and watered the 
fiowers, then , made a tempting breakfast for Owen. He 
remembered afterward how she sat by his side while he eat 
it, watching his face intently with her beautiful eyes; how 
she had hovered about him, doing little acts of kindness; 
loading him with every mark of afiection; and how sud- 
denly she broke off and kneeling down by his side, clasped 
her white arms with a lifctle cry round his neck. It was 
the last time, he was to feel the clasp of those dear arms no 
more until a colder hand guided them. For the last time 
he kissed the lovely colorless face, never dreaming that its 
light was to pass from it forever. 

Say you love me,^’ she whispered; she, who had bar- 
tered his love for wealth, longed to hear an assurance of it; 
she, who with her white hand was plunging the sharpest 
sword into that loving heart, longed 3"et once more to hear 
that it was her own. “ Say that you love me, Owen, and 
that I have been good to you,^'’ she whispered. 

He laughed aloud in the fullness of his content— in the 
abundance of Jiis happiness and the sunshine of his love; 
laughed while the white face on his breast quivered with 
pain, and the slender figure clasped to his arms trembled 
with emotion. 

My darling, I love you with all the love of my heart. 
How can I say merely that you have been good to me, when 
I know that you are an angel? Angels are all goodness. 


44 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


I am a miserable sinner/^ she answered, bowing her 
head. 

You are my darling wife/^ he answered, and I will 
not allow you to give yourself those names. 1 must go, 
Laure, darling; it has struck eight. 

He wondered why she rose so quickly and clasped her 
hands around him in that passionate embrace — why she 
held her colorless face to his, and kissed him as a mother 
kisses a child in the agonies of death. 

It was the last time — oh, God, the last time; — her arms 
fell listlessly; the passion and love, and strength seemed to 
die out of her. 

Good-morning, Laure,^^ said Owen. “ Child, how 
you love me!^^ 

‘‘ Good-bye, my love,^^ she answered. 

Hay, not good-bye*— that is a word full of evil omen. 
Good-morning. Say it, sweet. ^ ^ 

‘‘Good-morning,^^ she said; and her voice was mourn- 
fully sweet as the last notes of the ring-dove. 

Once more he touched the white lips with his own, then 
he turned away and went out at the open door. She fol- 
lowed him; she watched the tall, strong figure until it dis- 
appeared among the trees; there she stood, the sun shining 
on her white face, saying to herself : 

“ It is the last time— oh, my God, the last time.^^ 


CHAPTER IX. 

A SAD PAKTING. 

Thebe was one more thing to do. She had been lying, 
it seemed to her, for hours on the soft, thick grass; she re- 
membered falling there, faint and helpless, a great dark- 
ness over her eyes, the chill of death in her limbs. She 
was roused only by the loud singing of the birds. 

She had one thing more to do — only one. There was no 
clothes to be packed; the simple attire tli^it had suited 
Owen Rodents wife would be absurd in the eyes of the 
Marquis de Bourdon. There was no box, no traveling- 
trunk; she took nothing with her from her husband^’s 
home. But one thing remained to be done; the very 
thought of it made her heart turn sick with unutterable 
shame and fear. She must take off her wedding-ring. 


A KAMELEgg SIl^. 


45 


She was to present herself as unmarried, or the proud mar- 
quis would not recognize her as the wife of a poor man; it 
would be necessary therefore to remove her wedding-ring. 
She hated the thought of it; she hated herself for doing it, 
yet it must be done. 

She went up into her little bedroom; it seemed to her 
like robbing the dead. She stood for one moment to think 
of the hour in which that ring had been placed on her fin- 
ger; her mother had only been four weeks dead, and her 
husband ^s love was mingled with deepest pity. She could re- 
member the expression of his face, the love that shone in 
his eyes, and seemed to transfigure him; she remembered 
the clasp of his hand, the solemn words, and the way in 
which he had kissed the white hand ^hereon the ring shone. 

Now it must come' off; death had not divided them, yet 
they were to be apart for evermore. It was like looking on 
the face of the dead; it would have been easier to have 
plunged a dagger in her husband^s heart than to have taken 
off that ring, yet it had to be done. She tried to think of 
what laid beyond it— of the .freedom, the wealth, the pleas- 
ure, the bright unknown world, so fair and brilliant. What 
was it but a ring, a simple gold ring of no great value; yet 
the wearing of it bound her captive in unyielding chains; 
taking it off seemed to free her. 

It must go; it seemed to burn her finger, to press round 
it like a ring of fire. Why should she feel as though she 
Were robbing the dead? 

Poor little ring, it came off easily enough, and she 
looked at it as it lay in her hands; fitting emblem; it was 
easy to take off that, but was it so easy to break the vows 
that bound her, to break the solemn pledge given at the 
altar, to break the oath registered in heaven? She wrapped 
the ring in finest paper. In after times, when money was 
like dross to her, she purchased a thick locket of pure gold, 
and putting the ring inside, wore it round her neck while 
she lived; but in these earlier days she wore it fastened in 
the bodice of her dress. 

Then it seemed to her she was free. On the white hand 
no ring shone; she said to herself that s^e must forget the 
past; that it must be a sealed book to her, yet she began 
m a strange way; she kissed the pillow where her husband^s 
head had lain, the ground on which he had stood, the little 
room that had been to her like a shrine, the hundred and 


46 


A KAM-ELESS SIK. 


one things that he loved — kissed them as though they had 
been living, and could understand her. 

She stood for a few minutes at the threshold of the door; 
perhaps some good spirit spoke once more to her; perhaps 
some words of a prayer hovered over her lips; perhaps re- 
morse and regret were too strong for her to quite ignore 
them. ^Tever again would she stand under the light of 
heaven with a stainless soul. There was something more 
than love in the passion with which she knelt and kissed 
the threshold of the door, where she left her innocence, her 
peace of soul, her rest and her content, taking with her a 
remorse that would not leave her until her dying day. 

It was with the sun shining over her, the birds singing in 
her ears, amid the blooming of the flowers, the ripple of the 
leaves, the waving of the sweet-scented grass, that she left 
the home where she had been worshiped as few women are, 
and loved with a love beyond that of man. She never 
looked behind her; ghe never turned to gaze once more on 
the humble little home that henceforth she was to see only 
in her dreams; she walked on* quickly, crushing the wild 
flowers under her feet, hastening as though life depended 
on her speed. She chose the most unfrequented paths; she 
made a detour of many miles, so that she might not meet 
people she knew, and in that she was fortunate; during her 
whole walk she did not meet one person whom she knew. 

It was afternoon when she reached the pretty town of 
Sal til. She went at once to the hotel, and asked for Mrl 
Eodway. She was told that he was there, and she was 
uslxered into a dim little sitting-room to wait for him. 

There was no smile of triumph on his face when he saw 
her that might have stung her. He did not exclaim, I 
knew you would come,^^ but he looked at her gravely, dis- 
passionately. He held out his hand to her. 

I am glad to see you,^^ he said, gently; I have waited 
a fortnight over the time. I thought that you would have 
written if you had quite given up the idea of coming. You 
are looking very ill. 

The last words seemed to be startled out of him by the 
earnest gaze in her colorless face. 

The walk is long and has tired me,^^ she replied. 

‘"Walk! Did you walk? Why not have come by 
train?^^ he asked. 


A na:meless sin. 47 

Then it occurred to him that she had not wished to leave 
any trace of her journey. 

^‘Perhaps you are right/^ he said; you know best. 
Let me bring you a glass of wine; that will refresh you bet« 
ter than anything else/'' 

‘‘ I have never tasted wine,^^ she said; and Mr. Eodway 
laughed. 

‘‘ There are not many people in the world who can say 
that/" he replied. Let me advise it. You will find it a 
good cordial."" 

She drank the glass of wine, and it gave her some little 
strength. He sat opposite to her, calm, cold, unmoved — 
a man of business, nothing more. 

Now if you feel better,"" he said, shall we begin to 
discuss business? I have not written to the marquis yet."" 

‘‘ Not yet?"" repeated Laure. 

“ No; I did not feel justified in doing so; now I will. 
Now if you will authorize me, I will write and say I have 
found his heiress. You authorize me to say that you are 
unmarried."" 

She held out her hands before him — the bare, white hands 
on which no wedding-ring gleamed. 

‘‘ That is answer sufficient,"" she said, I wear no wed- 
ding-ring. "" 

He smiled, a slow, thoughtful smile. He was sensitive 
enough to understand how she shrunk from the torture of 
saying the words. 

“ Pardon me, that is not quite enough. I prefer the as- 
surance of your own words. "" 

I am not married,"" she said. 

He bowed. 

‘‘You authorize me also to state that you are perfectly 
willing to accept the conditions of the marquis."" 

“ Will you repeat them?’" she asked. 

“ First, that you swear most perfect secrecy; that you 
give up the past and all it holds — memories, associations, 
friends, everything — and begin a life entirely fresh and 
new. "" 

“ I promise that,"" she said. 

“I am well pleased,"" said Mr. Eodway. “I can not 
tell you how pleased. I think you have acted with the 
most perfect good sense. I will write to the marquis at 
once. Now, may I suggest a few things to you?"" 


48 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


“ I shall be pleased to listen/^ she said. 

A new manner had come to her, now that she had shaken 
off the old ties — a pride that made her doubly charming. 

‘‘ You are looking very ill/^ he said. I do not ask 
what has made you suffer, but no one could see you with- 
out thinking that you had suffered. 

‘^It is not easy to leave one^s home, never to see it 
again, she answered. 

He was keen enough to understand most of what had 
passed. He said to himself that she would suffer more in 
a few days^ time, when the reaction came, than she did now 
that she had the excitement and prospect of novelty. It 
would never do for that reaction to take place during the 
first days she was under her nucleus roof; better have it all 
over before she went there. So he answered her gently: 

I am sure it has troubled you. Leaving home, no 
matter how humble it may be, is always hard. I wish with 
all my heart it had been otherwise; but your home is sacri- 
ficed to the marquis’s pride. ” 

She bowed. She made him no answer. What should 
he know of what she had given up — of the passionate tears 
and kisses? 

Will you give me your attention for a few minutes?” 
he said. » 

And Laure looked steadily at him. 


CHAPTER X. 


THE EIKST PANGS OF REMORSE. 

‘‘I SHOULD suggest first of all,” said Mr. Rod way, 
‘‘ that you do not go to Eernholme Abbey for the next week 
or two. Shall I have your pardon if I speak quite plain- 

His great deference made her courteous. 

“ I shall be pleased,” she answered him; ‘‘ you see that 
I am quite friendless.” 

Thank you. I have told you that the marquis is a 
proud man; perhaps no man living is a more complete and 
thorough aristocrat than he. The sight of a lady’s hand 
reddened or coarsened by work would horrify him as would 
ill-fitting dresses or ungainly shoes.” 


• A NAMELESS SIN. 49 

She blushed crimson. He had to watch that beautiful 
fa6e narrowly, lest he should offend her. 

I was thinking, he continued, that if you went to 
Westburn, a pretty and fashionable watering-place on the 
southern coast, it would be the best thing possible for you. 
You would 4iave time to get over your very natural sor- 
row at leaving home; you would have time to recruit your 
health; you could pay some attention to those little details 
that make a lady so charming.’^ He paused for a moment, 
then coiitinued: I am speaking entirely in your own in- 
terests. I should wish the marquises first impression of you 
to be highly favorable. 

‘‘ So should 1 /^ interrupted Laure. 

Mr. Rod way bowed. 

Then on that one point we are agreed,^^ he continued. 

If you will permit me the honor, I shall be only too de- 
lighted to advance you any sum of money you may think 
fit for the purchase of all the needful things you may re- 
quire. 

Again she blushed crimson. He hastened to add : 

Pray do not think this would lay you under any obliga- 
tion to me; it is a mere business form. You can give me 
an acknowledgment, which the marquis will settle. Any 
other person in my place would make the same offer; any 
person in yours would accept it. 

You are quite sure?^^ she said, earnestly — so earnestly 
that he smiled. 

He began to see how proud a soul inhabited this beauti- 
ful body. 

I am sure. I must remind you that I am but your 
servant, and that all I have is at your service. Shall we 
arrange this at once? Shall I advance you one hundred 
pounds?^^ 

She looked up at him in such utter wonder that he 
laughed aloud. 

One hundred pounds,’^ she said. ‘‘Why, I should 
not spend as much as that on dress in a whole life-time. 

“ Pardon 'me,^^ he said, “ if I venture to predict that in 
a short time you will give as much as that for one single 
dress. 

“ One hundred pounds she repeated, wondering what 
Owen .would say if he heard it — what he would think of 


so 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


such fearful extravagance. Then she looked helplessly into 
the agent’s face. 

What should I buy with one hundred pounds?’’ she 
cried. 

A sudden longing came to her. If she could but send 
fifty of it to Owen to buy books. ‘ She had heat'd him long- 
ing for books, and saying that it would cost him fifty 
pounds to buy them, and that sum he should never be able 
to afford. She looked up at Mr. Eodway with such a sud- 
den brightening of her face, such a light in her eyes, that 
he was startled out of his cool, steady calm. 

‘‘ What is it?” he asked, hurriedly. 

If I take the hundred pounds, may I send fifty of it 
away?” she asked. 

You will not be able to spare it; you have evidently no 
idea at all of what you will require. If you want fifty or 
a hundred more you can have it with the greatest pleas- 
ure. ’ ’ 

Will any one say anything?” she asked, never dream- 
ing that such a sum of money could be looked on with im- 
punity. 

He smiled. 

I can undertake to answer that the only wonder ex- 
pressed will be why you did not take more. Would you 
mind telling me — I ask the question with all deference — 
would you mind telling me for whom you require or would 
like the money?” 

“ For a friend I have left,” she answered. 

“ You remember the conditions? You must not write 
to any friend. You have given them all up — you have 
finished with that past life.” 

She was silent, then he said: 

Of course, if it be any one whom you really wish to 
help, and it can be done anonymously, that will be all 
right. ” 

I will do it so.” 

She looked earnestly at him. 

You can not tell,” she said, how happy that fifty 
pounds will make me.” 

So it was settled. He gave her one hundred for her own 
use, and a bank-note for fifty; then, looking at his watch, 
he said: 

It would be more prudent for us to start for Westburn 


A KAM-ELESS SIK. 


51 


to-niglit, I think. It does not seem safe for me to remain 
in this neighborhood with yon. If we leave here by six, we 
shall reach Westburn by eleven/^ 

She was willing. She forgot everything just then in the 
pleasure of sending Owen fifty pounds. She had deliber- 
ately left him; she had given him the wound of his life; 
she had plunged the sharpest sword of sorrow in his heart; 
and yet she was almost happy in the prospect of being able 
to send him money. 

She busied herself with it; she had pens, ink and paper 
brought to her. She wrote in a stiff round hand, that did 
not even in the faintest degree resemble her writing. 

A great admirer of Owen Rodents — one who believes 
in his talents, and sees a bright future for him — sends him 
fifty pounds, that he may purchase proper books for study. 
The same gentleman will send again and again, and wishes 
Owen Roden all the prosperity he deserves. 

She kissed the little flimsy bank-note over again and 
again, because his fingers must touch it; then she scaled 
and addressed it. ^ 

She would post it at one of the near stations where the 
train passed, and he would never have any clew; he would 
never know that it came from her. It seemed to give her 
some little ease and comfort; she tried to think of poor 
Owen^s joy when he should find the money, rather than of 
his anguish at losing her. She did not foresee how the 
bank-note would lie unnoticed 'on the floor of his little cot- 
tage while he so vainly sought her. 

Then Mr. Rodway, who seemed determined that she 
should have no time for melancholy thoughts, insisted on 
a delicious dinner. He would not listen to her excuses; 
she must eat, she must drink, or she would be ill. She 
was compelled to take something, and when that was over 
it was time to go to the station. 

For the first time in her life Laure traveled in a first-class 
carriage with every appliance of luxury. Mr. Rodway 
bought her books and papers; he talked to her, he did 
everything in his power to make her cheerful, for he saw 
the look that began to come in her eyes. 

She will have to suffer awfully,'’^ he said to himself; 
she is proud and ambitious, but she is tender of heart. 
Whoever it is that she has left behind her there, the wrench 


52 


A N-AMELESS SIl^. 


is a great one; her grief will be like a thunder-storm, the 
longer it is coming the worse it will be/^ 

He saw her give the guard the letter to post, but he 
asked no questions when Laure sunk back in the carriage. 
While she held that letter in her hand it seemed that she 
had some little link binding her to Owen, now that it was 
gone, there was a terrible dreary blank, so terrible. The 
noise of the wheels, the shrill scream of the engine, the 
hissing of the steam, all made a deadly medley in her ears; 
above all she heard Owen’s voice, and it was always say- 
ing: 

I would follow you to the end of the world and die 
humbly at your feet.” 

Once she half slept, and started suddenly, with a terrible 
cry: 

‘‘ Owen, Owen, I dreamed that I had left you,” she 
said. 

She looked round with frightened eyes; there was the 
stranger, and the lamp burning, the empty seats — but no 
Owen. ^ 

Mr. Eodwa^T never gave the least sign of ‘having heard 
her; he was a wise man, and he had five thousand pounds 
to make. 

But when the train reached Westburn station he was 
very kind to her; he- drove to the best hotel, and ordered 
the best room for her. He looked at the white face, and 
the worn, sorrowful eyes. -• 

I have done the wisest thing I ever did in my life, in 
bringing her here first,” he said to himself. There would 
have been a terrible fiasco if we had gone to Fernholme.” 

‘‘Take some advice from an elderly gentleman. Miss 
Knowles,” he said; “ let me persuade you to have a 
tumbler of white wine whey.” 

She turned impatiently from him. 

“ I will not take any more wine,” she said. “ I do not 
like it, it makes me feel stupid.” 

“ The best advice that I can give you is to stupefy your- 
self,” he said. 

“ I only want to be alone. I shall be better alone,” she 
answered, turning from him, with a great tearfess sob. 
“ I can only feel that unless I am alone soon I shall 
die. ” 

He was hard and strong, with a cold heart and a hard 




A KAMELESS SIK. 


53 


nature, but he left her with tears in his eyes. He fain 
would have undone what he had done, but he wanted the 
five thousand pounds. 

It had come. She fell to the floor of the beautiful and 
spacious chamber where they had taken her. It seemed to 
her as though her soul was leaving her body. She flung 
the money far from her. She would not touch it. Perish 
all money, all wealth; she wanted Owen. 

Owen, who loved her; Owen, whose strong arms sheltered 
her; Owen, whose grand, noble heart was always her own. 
She lay on the floor, with her face buried in her hands, 
crying for him as she never cried again in her life, calling 
him by every loving name; Owen, her love, her husband, 
her all. She must go back to him; she had been mad to 
leave him; she must go back. She could not live away 
from him; this mad passion of grief was killing her. It 
seemed to her as though great fiery fangs were fastened in 
her throat, as though great, hot hands were tearing her 
chest. If that was sorrow, then she could bear no more of 
it, she must go back to Owen. 

On the morrow. He would hardly have time to miss 
her. She would go back on the morrow. She fell asleep 
with the words on her lips — the morrow — the day that never 
comes. 


CHAPTER XL 
yakity's victim. 

It was no surprise in the morning following to Mr. Rod- 
way to be told that the lady. Miss Knowles, was ill and 
quite unable to get up. He looked very sorry when the 
smart chamber-maid gave him the intelligence, although he 
had quite expected it. He enlisted the sympathy of the 
landlady and the servants in her behalf by saying that she 
had been in great trouble lately, and had not quite recov- 
ered; he begged that she might have every attention and 
no expense spared. 

He went out and purchased ripe, luscious fruit, fine old 
wine, and sent them to her— she never even looked at them. 
More than once he congratulated himself on hjs fore- 
thought, saying it was well that he had not taken her to 
Fernholme first. 

Laure never listened to any of the kindly messages he 


54 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


sent; she lay with her face turned to the wall— dumb with 
the passionate anguish that could find no vent, sullen with 
the greatness of her own despair. Have you, who read this, 
ever known the pain of a great loss? have you lost one who 
was so dear and so near to you that life seemed all ended 
when the presence faded? Do you remember the sharp 
pain that at first seemed to deaden you, then the silent, 
dazed sensation, followed by the terrible awakening, the 
physical anguish, that was so difficult to bear, the sorrow 
that had been repressed, coming uppermost, fighting its 
way, and making such a terrible havoc as it gained ground? 
If so you can pity this woman who in addition to the pain 
of her loss had the agony of knowing what her husband 
suffered. 

She slept at first the heavy sleep of exhaustion— blessed 
sleep that comes to us and lightens our sorrows; then the 
sun shone in her room and woke her; she had forgotten it 
all in that deep sleep; the warm, bright rays touched her, 
and in those half-deceiving moments she was by Owen^s 
side, the song of the birds in her ears, her daily duties be- 
fore her. It came to her with a sudden, terrible pain that 
she had left Owen forever and was never to see him again. 
Slowly as the tide creeps over the land, the whole force and 
knowledge of what she had done crept over her, and she 
cried aloud in her despair. 

She must go back to him, never mind what it cost her, 
no matter how much the marquis might need her, still less 
matter about Mr. Rod way and his five thousand pounds. 
She could not live with that terrible pain in her heart, stop- 
ping her breath, and choking her. 

Owen, Owen!^^ she cried aloud. 

She must go back to him without loss of time, without 
one hour^s delay. She does not think of what he has suf- 
fered, of what the night, so awful in its anguish to her, had 
been to him. She must go, ah, even before the sun rose 
higher in the heavens. He loved her so dearly he would 
forgive her at once; she would fling her arms round his 
neck, and keep them there clasped tightly until he kissed 
her and promised to forget it. She was impatient to be 
gone; she would leav5 the hundred pounds for Mr. Rod way, 
and she would send the fifty. Oh, to be away from here, 
from the coil that seemed wound round her, to be once 
more in the little cottage by Owen's side. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


55 


‘‘ Owen, OwenT^she called aloud in her anguish. How 
should she live until she was with him again. She tried to 
rise but the shock had been too great for her. In her short, 
simple life, she had known what it was to suffer from hun- 
ger, from cold and thirst; she had known physical pain, 
but never mental; it was new to her, this anguish which 
seemed to devour her, to prostrate her; she could not 
stand, the strength of her limbs failed, a great darkness 
came over her eyes, and she fell with a low cry. 

She could not stand; it was in vain she tried; there was 
nothing for it but to ring for aid. 

She lay all day unable to move, conscious only of one 
supreme longing, and it was to go away, to find hersdf with 
Owen again, never, oh, never, while life lasted to leave him 
again. 

Mr. Eodway was most anxious, most solicitous; he sent 
constantly to make inquiries about her; no one but him- 
self knew his anxiety, yet he trusted to the chapter of ac- 
cidents, trusted to his own marvelous diplomacy, to his own 
skill and tact. 

He was startled on the morning following when she 
came suddenly into the little sitting-room. He hardly rec- 
ognized her. The comparison that came first to his mind 
was that of a flower blighted by the frost. In twenty-four 
hours she seemed to have lost all her beauty and coloring. 
Her face was white and drawn, with great, dark shadows 
round the eyes and great lines of pain round the lips; her 
eyes were shadowed as with some great anguish. She held 
out her white, trembling hands to him. 

“ Do not be angry with me,^^ she said, I must go 
back. 

He was far too wise a man to attempt to oppose her. 

You shall please yourself, my dear Miss Knowles, he 
said. ‘‘lam grieved to see you look so ill.-’^ 

He made her sit down on the little couch; he saw that 
she trembled violently. 

“ I will be quite firm in one thing, ^ ’ he said ; “ I will 
not hear one word until you have eaten some breakfast with 
me; if you will promise me to do that I will help you in 
any way you will.'^'^ 

She looked at him with great, wistful eyes. 

“ I can not eat,^^ she said; “ it is cruel to ask me. 

“ Then I must be cruel, for I shall insist on doing it. I 


56 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


know that you took nothing yesterday — I made inquiries; 
you will not be strong enough even to return, unless you 
will try. I will help you in any way you like best if you 
will but promise me that you will join me in that.'’^ 

I will try,^^ she said; you will let me go home, back 
to my — to — to Rosethorpe, will you not?^’ 

‘‘ My dear Miss Knowles, I am your servant, not your 
master,^^ he replied; ‘‘ I will do anything you wish, if you 
will but take some breakfast. 

So, to please him, and because the action seemed to bring 
her nearer to Owen, she eat some bread and drank some 
tea; it did her good, she looked stronger and better after 
it. 

‘‘ Now we will talk,^^ he said, gently. You want to 
go back again, you do not feel equal to going through with 
it/" 

I do not; I must return,"" she said. 

“You have left some friend, a friend probably from 
whom you do not wish to be parted. "" 

“ Yes, that is it,"" she said, in a low voice; “ I must go 
back. "" 

“ Very well, I can not object; you have the most perfect 
right to please yourself; but you will allow me, I am sure, 
to advise you."" 

“ Yes,"" she answered, briefly. 

“ Do not go to-day, wait until to-morrow, or the day 
after; you are not indeed fit for travel. One or two days 
can not matter much, as you have decided on going. 
Take my advice, rest here to-day, go to-morrow, if you 
feel better, if not, wait until the next day. "" 

“ If you really wish it,"" she said; “ but I would rather 
go at once; still I will' wait until to-morrqw."" 

“ You will act wisely. And now, as you have never seen 
the sea, I presume, we will drive down to the beach and the 
fi.rst breath of the salt breeze will do you good."" 

She did not object; as well that as anything else; no 
matter how the time passed until she was with Owen again. 
Mr. Rod way ordered a carriage, and they drove gently 
down to the sea. Ah, that was wonderful, that great, wide 
sheet of water; it was so wonderful that it took her breath 
away and froze the words on her lips; so wonderful that 
she could not take her eyes from it, and her face grew even 
whiter with emotion. 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


57 


He dismissed the carriage, and helped her to walk on the 
sands. They sat down on a great, dry stone, and she, 
with the delight of a child, watched the great waves roll 
in. Then, slowly the sea-breeze brought the color back to 
her face — the loveliest, daintiest bloom; it brought the 
light to her eyes, the rose-hue to her lips; it seemed to blow 
away the lines of pain — it made her quite a different 
creature. And again the astue agent congratulated him- 
self on his wisdom. 

The world is full of such beautiful sights, he said; 

it is sad that one^s life has to be spent in small places, 
without a chance of travel. Shall we walk down to the 
water ^s edge? You will like to take some of this trailing 
sea- weed home with you.^^ 

They spent some hours very happily down on the beach ; 
then he drove her past the great, white cliffs and over the 
heathery downs. Laure was charmed, but she did not for- 
get Owen. Both she and Mr. Bod way talked as though 
her going home was a settled thing. 

‘‘You are much better, he said to her at night; “ one 
more day by the sea, and you will be quite well. * You had 
better stay over to-morrow.’^ 

She was willing; she longed to see the marvelous waters 
once again before she left them forever. 

“ I have been thinking, said Mr. Eodway, “ that as 
you have the money, you may as well spend some of it. 
You would like to visit the shops, and purchase some suit- 
able dresses; I do not like to see you disguised in these. 

“ But the money is yours, she said, “ not mine. I am 
going back home.-^^ 

“ Certainly. Still I can arrange that matter. Pray do 
as I ask you; come with me to-morrow and spend the 
money. If you will forgive my saying so, I am most anx- 
ious to see the great change that dress will make in you. 

He had baited his trap well; it was hardly to be expected 
that a girl who had never had one shilling for herself could 
resist the temptation to spend one hundred pounds; that a 
beautiful woman, whose beauty had been disguised by dress, 
could resist the temptation of seeing how she would look in 
a dress that suited her. 

She spent the greater part of the next day in visiting the 
different shops. She smiled when Mr. Eodway insisted on 
buying two large traveling-trunks. 


58 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


“ You must have something that will hold all your pur- 
chases/^ he said. 

These trunks would not go in at the door of my litte 
home/^ she said; but he did not seem to hear the objection. 

On that day she thought less of Owen. She had for the 
first time in her life the great pleasure of surrounding her- 
self with beautiful things. 

She put on one of the new dresses to dine with Mr. Eod- 
way. She did not .know herself; it was only an elegantly 
made black silk, but it completely changed her. It showed 
the graceful lines of her perfect figure; the fine white lace 
was not so white as the beautiful neck it encircled; she 
looked like a young princess. She read wonder and admi- 
ration in the agent^s face, she read it in the increased def- 
erence of his manner, in the redoubled respect of the serv- 
ants. When she went out the next day in a daintily made 
Parisian bonnet and costume, she saw that people stopped 
in the streets and looked after her. Mr. Eodway smiled in 
his quiet way. 

‘‘ I knew that you would make a great sensation. Miss 
Knowles,^^ he said. I have been besieged with petitions 
for introductions to you. If you had been going into the 
great world, you would soon have had it at your feet.^^ 

The third day she said little of going home; he had 
baited his trap well. He had aroused and brought into full 
life her pride and ambition. 

It is never pleasant to trace the downfall of a noble nat- 
ure, or to tell how one with all the elements of nobility 
goes wrong. Mr. Kodway was a wise man; he interested 
her so completely in the vanities of dress and fashion, in 
the wonder of her own fair loveliness, in the beautiful 
scenery, in the thousand and one charms of life that grad- 
ually, slowly, surely the change came. 

It were too sad a story to trace day by day, to tell how 
the great sorrow died away, how the passionate anguish grew 
less, how the aching heart grew brighter. Mr. Eodway 
was a wise man full of tact and diplomacy; there was no 
subtle influence which could touch or reach a woman^s heart 
that he neglected, and the result was attained. Laure re- 
mained at Westburn a fortnight, during which time she 
completely recovered her brilliant beauty and dainty 
bloom. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 59 

She never went back to Owen, and Mr. Eodway won his 
five thousand pounds. 

More than once that astute gentleman smiled to himself 
and said: 

I did a wise thing in bringing her here; if I had taken 
her to Fernhoime she would never have stayed, and I 
should have lost — not won.^^ 


CHAPTEE XIL 

THE WIFE^S LIE. 

Feenholme Abbey had long been one of the show places 
in England. It was built originally as an abbey, then it 
became a fortress, after wliich one of the Tudor kings, ad- 
miring the situation, seized it and made it into a summer 
residence; the-next king bestowed it on his reigning favor- 
ite; it descended to her sons, until one more profligate and 
spendthrift than the rest, sold it; then it; was purchased by 
a wealthy peer, who added to it and enlarged it. It was 
worthy of note that many different possessors added to it, 
beautifled it, improved and altered it according to his own 
particular taste, so that it gradually became one of the 
most picturesque masses of building in England. It had a 
beauty and irregularity quite its own. 

The present owner, the Marquis de Bourdon, had, to use 
his own expression, simply reflned it. The interior was 
transformed into what was really a palace of art; he added 
picture-galleries and great oriel windows, stained glass, 
ferneries, conservatories, fountains; he did ^t leave one 
square inch of the whole vast building unbeautified; his 
j)ictures were the wonder of half England, his statues spoken 
of everywhere, his flowers the wonder of all who saw them. 
He had collected the ancient pictures that had belonged to 
the De Bourdons; he had given fabulous sums for them, 
and for every relic of his ancient house — they formed the 
principal ornaments of Fernholme. In the picture-gallery 
the fair faces of coquettish French women, who had ruled 
kingdoms and kings, shone on the wall, dark faces of 
Norman rulers, stern faces of the De Bourdons who had 
faced death and smiled at it. 

It was no wonder that artists and poets all sought Fern- 
holme; it was a massive poem in itself; every age was rep- 


60 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


resented there, from the most barbarous to the most luxu- 
rious. 

On this warm, bright day in July, the marquis was pac- 
ing up and down his library, evidently agitated and ill at 
ease. He had been a handsome man in his youth, and now 
retained ajnagnificent presence. He had a tall, well-built 
figure, erect and martial in its carriage — full of dignity 
that he never lost; he might have been some grand Nor- 
man king, weighed down by cares of state. The fine, pa- 
trician face had deep lines of care; the eloquent eyes were 
dim; the hair, so silken and luxurious, was white as snow. 

There was something grand and majestic about him, 
something imperial in his gestures; he looked like a man 
who had swayed thousands by one wave of his white hand. 
He could never be mistaken for anything but an aristocrat; 
if he had called himself peasant, or parvenu, every one 
would have laughed at him; he was a gentleman born 
— refined, sensitive, brave and honorable — he could never 
have been anything else. 

His life had been full of strange changes. Born of a 
peasant mother, his father, the ruined peer, had done but 
little for him. As a -child, he had loved his father, who 
had trusted him and him alone with the secret of his birth 
and title. 

‘‘ Go back to Prance, Auguste, the old marquis would 
say; ‘‘ win back name and fame — it is to be done, if you 
will do it. 

There was no sympathy between the peasant mother and 
her son; he had been many years in France when he heard 
of the birth of the little sister whom he had never seen. 
He did not return even when his father died, for he was 
serving then in Algiers, and could not leave. 

After years of study and toil, of stirring adventure and 
martial valor — after making for himself a name known all 
over France — he was, by great good fortune, enabled to 
render an invaluable service to the ruler of France, and his 
reward was great. 

His title and estates were restored to him, with a large 
sum of money as compensation. But the soldier was sick 
at heart, he saw bribery and corruption, he saw such fer- 
ment and irritation in the great masses of the people, he 
foresaw such disasters that his heart failed him ; he saw for 
certain that if he remained there a change of rulers would 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


61 


come, and he would lose all that he had gained. He sold 
all his estates except the Chateau de Bourdon, from which 
he took his name, and came to England; it seemed to him 
that he could serve his country better at a distance from 
her than with her. 

Fortune lavished favors on him, and his wealth seemed 
to multiply; he married a rich heiress, who died, leaving him 
two children, and by a strange fatality they ^ied as soon as 
they came of age. He had never forgotten the existence 
of the sister whom he had not seen, but every effort he had 
made was quite useless. He went down himself to his birth- 
place, and heard how the handsome, vigorous peasant- 
mother had died, but no one knew anything of Augusta; she 
liad left home, and was married — that was the most he 
could learn. He petitioned the Secretary of State for per- 
mission to remove the remains of his mother and father to 
Fernholme, where a handsome mausoleum was erected to 
receive them. Then he looked round for the cleveerst man 
he could find, to place the search in his hands. 

Hitherto the years had passed and'had brought with them 
no success, but this morning a letter had arrived which had 
taken from him his self-possession. It was but brief. 

V My lord,^Mt ran, I have been successful. I have 
said nothing lest at the last there should be a disappoint- 
ment. This evening I bring to Fernholme your lost niece. 
Miss Laure Knowles, and with her I bring every possible 
proof of her identity that can be required. 

‘‘ I am your lordship’s obedient servant, 

''A. Hod WAY. 

Since the reading of that letter little peace had come to 
the lord of Fernholme. He was proud, ambitious, sensi- 
tive and refined. He longed with all his heart that Bod- 
way had said something about his niece, had told him 
whether she was refined, presentable or what. Yet he felt 
that if his agent had presumed to say anything of the kind 
he should never forgive him. 

He was restless and anxious; he began to question him- 
self as to whether, after all, he had done a wise thing. 

His mother was a peasant; v^hat if to the women of his 
race had been transmitted peasant features and that innate 
vulgarity which nothing can possibly eradicate? If there 


62 


A KAMELESS SIJ?-. 


came to liim some tall, angular girl, with coarse, hand- 
some, peasant features, red hands and an incurable accent, 
what could he do? Ever introduce such a one to the world 
as Mile, de Bourdon he could not — would not; he had rather 
leave his vast fortune to charity, and let the ancient name 
die. He wished now that he had taken the precaution of 
seeing his niece before she was brought home to him. 

He had said nothing in the household — he would not; for 
if she were what he feared, she could be no heiress of his, 
and there would be time enough for all that when he saw 
her. He was so anxious and agitated that when the bell 
rang, and he knew she had arrived, he trembled, and then 
he laughed at himself. 

I have faced a whole regiment with fixed bayonets,^ ^ 
he said — I have faced death and danger, shall I tremble 
before a girl? Verily 1 forget that I am a soldier. 

Yet, despite his brave words, it required all his courage 
to enter the drawing-room where they awaited him. 
Never, until his dying day, will he forget the relief he felt 
when he saw before him a tall slender girl, with a beauti- 
ful face and graceful figure, exquisitely dressed and looking 
lovely as a dream. His first sensation was one of intense 
relief, his second one of intense pleasure. He looked at 
the agent. 

‘‘ Is this my niece ?^^ he asked, and his voice was broken 
with emotion. 

This is Miss Knowles, said Mr. Kodway. 

He held out his hands to her and in his courtly fashion 
kissed her on both sides of the face. 

“I never saw your mother — my only sister, he said; 

but you are like her, I am sure. Welcome to my home 
and my heart. 

Then he stood quite silent for some minutes, watching 
the matchless beauty of that sweet, young face, the loveli- 
ness of the whole figure. 

I can not say how welcome you are to me, Laure,^^ he 
said. I have sought you for years; now I am repaid. 
You come to me as daughter, niece, heiress, the only living 
creature whose hand I can clasp as one of my own. How 
old are you, Laure?"^^ he asked. 

She looked up at him, 'timidly, this handsome, courtly 
man, so majestic and dignified. 

I am eighteen/^ she answered. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 63 

The age of poetry/^ he said. “ Eighteen, and life all 
before you. And you — you are not married, Laure?^^ 

She was quite silent for one minute, and the radiance of 
her beauty seemed to fall from her face. Then, in a voice 
hard and cold, she answered : 

“ No, I am not married, uncle. 

‘ ^ I am so pleased, so delighted, my niece. The sight of 
you has made me feel quite young again. 

It seemed to her that another voice besides his was 
speaking, and that it said : 

‘‘ I should follow you like a dog to the worhEs end, and 
die humbly at your feet.^^ 


CHAPTER XIII. 

WHAT WAS IT THE PKICE OF? 

Laure had seen little enough of what is called life; she 
had seen so few people, mixed so little in any kind of so- 
ciety, that it was wonderful how she should be able to form 
any kind of estimate or judgment, yet she was wonderfully 
struck with the fine, courteous, chivalrous manner of the 
marquis. There was the slightest possible shade of differ- 
ence between his manner to Mr. Rod way and to herself; so 
slight that none but an acute observer would have noticed 
it, yet marked enough to show the difference he made be- 
tween his niece and his employe. He was grand seigneur 
from head to foot; his words were courtly, his actions 
courtly, with an innate grace and refinement that delighted 
Laure. 

After a time he said: 

While my niece arranges her toilet, we will settle our 
little business matters, Mr. Rod way. 

A maid was summoned who was to show Laure her 
rooms, and the two gentlemen went to the library. Laure 
knew then that he was to receive the reward, five thousand 
pounds. What was it the price of? A woman^s love and 
honor — a woman ^s heart and life. This thought crossed her 
mind as she followed the maid through the long corridors 
and up the broad staircase — just crossed her mind, but did 
not linger there, there was no room for it. She had never 
dreamed of anything half so beautiful as this old Abbey. 
Frome Castle, Lord Cardin^s home, was nothing to be com- 


64 


A iq-AMELESS siiq-. 


pared to it, and that had always seemed to her a dream of 
delight. 

Here on the beautifully tinted walls, hung priceless pict- 
ures; from between the folds of luxurious hangings gleamed 
costly statues, superb jardinieres filled with choicest flow- 
ers; carpets so thick and soft that no step could be heard 
on them — luxury and magnificence abounded. When she 
entered the superb apartments the marquis in his own 
mind intended for her, her wonder was still more increased. 
Once at Frome Castle, when Lady Cardin was away from 
home, as a very great favor one of the maids had shown 
her my lady^s chamber, but this was far more magnificent. 
The tall mirrors, the pictures, the beautiful furniture, the 
china and silver, the exquisite Bohemian glass on the toilet 
table, the thousand and one ornaments, all impressed her. 

She stood looking at them full of wonder. Was this 
superb room really for her? The long French windows 
opened on to iron balconies that were filled with flowers; the 
view from them over the park and the river was beautiful 
— and the price a womaiFs honor and a man’s heart. 

She would soon forget that, and all would be well. While 
the maid assisted her, Laure’s mind was filled with a most 
uncomfortable degree of wonder. When should she under- 
stand the names, much less the use of all these silver- 
stopped bottles and different things to which her maid 
seemed quite accustomed? — when should she be as much at 
home in this magnificent room as she had been in the little 
chamber where t^ie roses peeped in at the window and the 
birds sung in the eaves? 

Meanwhile the marquis and the agent stood looking at 
each other. 

‘‘ I hope, my lord,^’ said Mr. Eodway, that you are 
pleased.” 

‘‘ Pleased,” cried the marquis; ‘‘ I am more than pleased 
— I am delighted. I must confess. Rod way, that the reality 
far exceeds all my anticipations. I had never hoped to see 
anything so beautiful and graceful.” 

‘"I hold myself a very fortunate man, my lord,” said 
the agent. 

‘‘ And I hold myself a very happy one,” said the mar- 
quis, with infinite grace. Then, raising his face, he looked 
intently at his employe. 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


65 


^ Was it much trouble to her — did she seem to grieve 
over leaving home?^^ he asked. 

No, not more than might have been foreseen. She had 
not many friends, was the reply. 

With whom was she living?^^ he asked. Was she 
alone 

She lived in a little cottage, quite alone, to the best of 
my belief. I saw no one there but herself. 

“ Of course, Kodway, you observed all due caution,^^ 
said the nlarquis. 

I was cautious, my lord, as even you could have wished 
me to be,^^ was the reply. 

Still the keen, clear eyes were fixed on his face, as though 
the marquis would read his very soul. 

I need hardly ask the question. Is she married, Eod- 
way?^^ 

Certainly not, my lord. I asked the same question the 
first time I saw her, and was answered at once.*^^ 

I do not like asking questions which would better 
become an inquisitor than a gentleman, he continued, 

but I am desirous of understanding the proper state of 
things. Does she — did she, my niece, love or care for any 
one — in plain language, had she any lover?^^ 

No; I am perfectly certain of that,^^ was the quiet re- 
ply. I am quite convinced that she had no lover. 

I am well pleased to hear it; once more let me express 
my gratitude to you. You have well earned your reward; 
let me add also that I consider myself so deeply indebted to 
you that while I live you need never want a friend. Now 
for our settlements^ 

The detectives s face grew very pale. This was the de- 
cisive moment for him; once let him hold the check in his 
hands and he could laugh at fate. He trembled as the 
marquis went to his writing-desk; his lips quivered. How 
hard he had worked for that moment; how much depended 
on it, and the least interruption might be fatal. 

None came. A great tearless sob of relief rose to his 
lips as he saw the marquis sign his name; then he came to 
him and presented the check. 

With it let me give you my earnest thanks,ss said the 
marquis, and at last Mr. Rod way held the five thousand 
pounds safe. 

3 


66 


A KAMELESS SIN. 


Something of remorse and sorrow mingled with his hap- 
piness, but he quickly drove that feeling away. 

“ I have done the best for her that could be done,” he 
said to himself. 

He noticed, even in the tumult of his thoughts, that the 
Marquis de Bourdon did not offer to touch his hand. That 
fine, white hand, with the filbert-shaped nails, with the one 
costly diamond ring, was not held out to him. 

Then he took a glass of madeira with his lordship, and 
their interview was ended. He had said good-bye to Laure, 
now he had made his adieu to the marquis, and had left the 
Abbey. 

When the marquis returned to the drawing-room, it was 
to find his beautiful niece there before him. He went to 
her and kissed her white brow. 

“ I could hot say much to you before that person,” he 
said. “ I am so pleased to see you, Laure; you and I are 
left alone, the only two remaining of what was once a large 
and flourishing family ; we must do our best for its welfare, 
for its honor. 1 have been very lonely all these years; I 
am glad to have found you. You must be daughter and 
niece in one to me.’^ 

He looked half sadly at her. 

“You are very charming, Laure — very beautiful,” he 
said. “ I wish I had seen Augusta, your mother. Are 
you like her, I wonder? You have the true Bourdon face 
— refined and sweet.” 

“ I am glad that you are pleased with me, uncle,” she 
said. 

“Your voice, too, is sweet and well modulated; I like 
the tone. A nice voice, well trained and silvery, is a great 
thing in a lady. ” Then he took both her hands in his, 
and looked at them. “ Bon sang ne pent monter,” he 
said; “ good blood will show itself. Your hands are beau- 
tiful, Laure; had they been coarse or red, even a lovely face 
would hardly have carried you through. Pine, little 
hands, but they are still somewhat hard. You have 
worked, Laure, have you not?” 

“I have done nothing else,” she said; “ I have had to 
five by hard work. ” 

“ Poor child,” he said, “ how terrible it is. Yet I have 
done my best; for years I have searched for you. Your 


A NAMELESS SIN. 67 

poor mother left no trace. You see it was almost impossi- 
ble to find you."^^ 

The beautiful face clouded. The marquis continued: 

‘‘ I own to you frankly that I had many misgivings, 
Laure. I knew that of course your poor mother had mar- 
ried in what she thought her own class, and that it was a 
chance if, after all, you took after the aristocratic or the 
plebeian side. N^ow I am quite content; my beautiful niece 
might be a princess in her own right. Laure, there is one 
thing more on which I congratulate myself. I am so glad, 
so pleased, so well content that you are not married. 

He did not see that her face grew white, even to the 
sweet, proud lips, and the bright eyes fell. He thought 
she was shy and embarrassed. 

1 should have been dreadfully distressed had you un- 
fortunately been married, he continued; indeed I gave 
instructions to Mr. Eodway if that were the case, to let the 
matter drop through.'’^ 

She found courage sufficient to raise her eyes and ask: 

Because my whole heart has grown sick of love mar- 
riages,^^ he said. ‘‘ They have been the bane of our race. 
I have all honor and reverence for my own mother, although 
she was peasant-born; but if my father had married in his 
own sphere, it would have been better for him. I resolved 
that I would have no more — in time our race would de- 
teriorate. I told my agent if ever he found you, and found 
you married, to let the whole affair fall through, and I can 
not tell you how delighted I am that my dear niece is free. 
How all the glories of the De Bourdons may return, all 
the ancient luster of the race revive; there need be no limit 
to my ambition or to yours. I am so pleased, so thankful 
that you are free. Tell me just one thing, Laure — I beg 
you to pardon me that I ask the question — but I wish to 
understand, have you left a lover in this country home of 
yours?’ ^ 

She looked at the noble, kindly face. 

‘‘ A lover, uncle?” she answered, slowly; no, I have 
not.” 

That is well. I should not have liked to think that 
you were unhappy. You have brought your fancy, your 
affections, your heart, quite free, Laure?” 

‘‘ Quite free/’ she answered. 


68 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


Nothing could be better. I prophesy for you now the 
brightest future of any girl in England. You are not 
twenty years old yet, Laure?^^ 

No/^ she said, I am just eighteen. 

Then, after a few more kindly words, he left her, and 
Laure returned to her beautiful room to sleep. 


CIIAPTEE XIV. 

AN UNPARDONABLE SIN. 

The morning rose bright and beautiful. Laure awoke 
with the sun; she smiled to herself as she remembered how 
she had thought the room at the sea-side hotel all that was 
most grand — this luxurious apartment so far eclipsed it, 
that her thoughts flew to the little chamber, with the 
flowers peeping in at the window, and the birds singing in 
the eaves. 

I must forget that, she said; “ if I remember it or 
him, all my life will be wretched. 

Yet more than once her thoughts went back to the tall, 
strong flgure, and the honest, kindly, true face. The maid 
that helped her dress thought her quiet and reserved. 
Laura looked very lovely in a morning dress of white mus- 
lin and lace, her golden brown hair simply arranged and 
tied back in waving luxuriance, no art could have en- 
hanced her wonderful beauty as did this simple elegance. 

The marquis was delighted when he saw her. 

“ This simple elegance is charming, Laure. You have 
the true ideas of a lady over dress, I am delighted to see. 
When we have taken breakfast, you and I have a few little 
matters which we must discuss. 

Breakfast was laid in a bright sunny room, the delicate 
china, the shining silver, the flowers on the table, the fine 
damask, the reclierclie little dishes pleased Laure. There 
was the prettiest little service for her use; the marquis 
preferred claret and fruit. He sat opposite to Laure, and 
while he seemed to be talking carelessly to her, he was 
watching keenly how she conducted herself. Her instinct 
was perfect; he saw that she had the inbred, innate refine- 
ment; but her manners were by no means perfect. She 
was at a loss when to use her knife or her fork; he saw, and 
that comforted him, that she was quick to imitate, that she 


A KAMELESS SllT. 


69 


was one of those gifted women who seem instinctively to fall 
into the ways and the fashions of the people with whom 
they associate; he had no fear but that she would quickly 
adapt herself to the habits and manners of the best society. 
Then, when breakfast was over, he asked her to walk 
through the grounds with him, he had much to say to her. 
They walked some little distance, then in the grand old 
avenue of limes he asked her to sit and rest while she list- 
ened to his plans. He did not wish just yet to introduce 
her to the world, or even to Iris own household as his niece 
and his heiress. 

“ There are many reasons, Laure,” he said. I do 
not wish any one to know that you have been living in Eng- 
land. I shall go to France, and bring you back with me; 
every one will believe I have brought you direct from 
there. I do not want any one to know that you have lived 
in poverty and obscurity in England. It would tell against 
you, Laure, in the race I want you to win. ” 

“ I understand,” she said, gravely. 

“Then you -see, Laure, it would be necessary for you 
to live some time in France, that you might learn to speak 
French; besides which I know you will not be pained if I 
tell you that you have much to learn, much to unlearn; 
that you will want much training before yon go into 
society. ” 

“ I quite expeqted it,” she said, quietly. 

“ Then, in these days,” he continued, “ no one can be 
considered educated who has not traveled. You must visit 
Italy, Switzerland, Germany— all places of note; you must 
see for yourself the'great pictures of the world, the master- 
pieces of art; you must educate yourself also by reading 
and talking.” 

“ I will do my best,” she answered. 

Then he told her all that in his own mind he had 
arranged to do. 

“ You are still so young,” he said, “ that you can well 
spare two years in study; then, when we return, I shall in- 
troduce you into the great world as my niece and heiress. 
Do you like the plan I have suggested, Laure?” 

She told him yes, that she liked it very much. Then he 
explained to her that, as his niece, she was not, perhaps, 
strictly entitled to the title of lady, but, as his adopted 
daughter and heiress, he should prefer that she used it, and 


70 


A l^AMELESS SIK. 


she was to be known henceforth as Lady Laure de Bour- 
don. Her face flushed when she heard it. The marquis 
smiled complacently over the name. 

‘‘It is very pretty, very musical/^ he said. “Lady 
Laure de Bourdon. What a fortunate thing it was that your 
mother called you Laure. How was it?^^ 

“ She had often heard her father say that he admired 
that name/^ she answered. 

“ Yes, it has been much used in our family. Now, 
Laure, 1 will show you the interior of the Abbey. I will in- 
troduce you to some of the members of your family on 
canvas. Unfortunately many of our finest family portraits 
were destroyed during the revolution, but I managed to 
secure some; others I have purchased at any cost. You 
will like to see them. 

“ I should like it better than anything, she said. 

“ That is right. A taste for painting, and indeed for 
all the fine arts runs in our family. I am glad to see that 
you have it. 

They re-entered the house, and in his courtly, gallant 
fashion the marquis escorted her to the gallery, where the 
family portraits were all arranged in due order. He showed 
her a dark-faced He Bourdon, who had been prime minister 
to one of the kings of France; one who had been the 
bravest marshal in the land where all soldiers are brave; 
one who had saved a king^s life by taking for himself a 
murderer^s blow aimed at the king — braVe men and true, 
all of them, with the great virtues and the great vices that 
belong to strong characters. 

Then he showed her the portraits of beautiful women. 
Some were fair, some dark. He smiled as he looked at 
them. 

“ All the women born of our race,^^ he said, “ have been 
famous for their loveliness. Look at La Belle Isabelle; 
she was said to be the fairest woman in all France. This 
one. La Marquise Honore, was left a widow at the age of 
twenty-one, and never remarried; she devoted herself to 
bringing up her children, and was known as La Belle et 
Bonne Hame.^^ 

He passed without speaking a beautiful, golden-haired 
woman, whose white neck was encircled by rich sapphires. 
Laure looked with great admiration at the beautiful, 
sparkling faoe, 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


71 


Uncle/ ^ she asked, who is this?^^ 

He looked up. 

I do not care to tell you about her/^ he said. 

Do tell me. She is so beautiful. I like the face so 
much. 

Do not say that, Laure. It is a beautiful face, but 
not a good one; surely you can see that; perhaps it would 
be better for me to tell you. She was called ‘ La belle 
Gabrielle,^ but she ran away from her husband, left him, 
and in all the long line of women belonging to our race, 
she is the only one on whom that stain rests. 

He did not see how the young face before him had sud- 
denly grown deadly pale. 

‘‘ We forgive much to men,^^ he said, perhaps unjust- 
ly so, but little to women. La belle Gabrielle has been a 
blot on the De Bourdons; her name is held in detestation. 
I have regretted more than once that I brought her por- 
trait with me, yet it is a lovely picture. 

Why did she leave her husband?'^ asked Lady Laure, 
in a low voice. 

Because she was false of heart. Do not talk about 
her, Laure; that is the one crime I would never forgive in 
a woman; any treachery, any baseness but that. Why, 
Laure, you are trembling; have I tired you, or frightened 
you?^^ 

Neither, she said, but her face had grown white, 
even to the lips; her limbs trembled, her lips quivered. 
The marquis was alarm. He took her hastily to a chair 
and made her sit down. 

I am quite sure that you are ill, Laure, he said. 

I am not indeed, uncle. I thmk it is the rich odor of 
all these flowers; see, I am quite well now. Tell me, for 
I am very anxious to hear, tell me about the other ladies. 

Another time,^^ he said; “ I must remember that all 
these things are quite new to you, and you must naturally 
feel some emotion. I shall take you to the drawing-room, 
where you niust rest, and I must remember that you have 
the flne sensitiveness that belongs by right to the illus- 
trious.'^^ 

He took her back to the beautiful drawing-room and 
made her rest on the couch; he placed a book in her hand 
and left her. 

But she could not read, her heart was on fire. If ho 


73 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


knew, this proud, refined nobleman — if he knew the one 
crime he could never forgive— falsity in women— if he 
knew what she had done, how quickly would all this 
grandeur fade from her; how soon would he dismiss her 
with slighting words, for he never forgave the sin. 

How grand and luxurious it was, all this new life of 
hers; how grand jt would be in the future, when she should 
be mistress of all his wealth; how wonderful her story was, 
like one read in a book — Lady Laure de Bourdon! 

Then she said to herself that she must be very careful 
lest by any means this guarded secret of hers should come 
to light; yet, how could it? She should soon be safe in 
France, and when she returned it was quite certain that no 
one would recognize In the brilliant heiress the country girl 
who had left her husband for money^s sake. 

The price — only a woman^s honor and a man^s heart — 
not much for all that surrounded her, for title, wealth, 
luxury, magnificence, for pleasures for which she had 
never dreamed, for gayety, and for every delight that could 
be imagined. 

Yet it was strange how ill she felt, how faint and tired. 
She tried to rise, but she fell back weak and giddy. 

Surely, she said to herself, I am not going to have 
an illness and die — die, just when all the world seems so 
bright and fair. 

It passed away just then, but it returned again and again; 
she lost some^ of her dainty bloom. More than once the 
marquis, looking at her, asked her if she felt ill; the an- 
swer was always, No.^^ 

A maid came whose sole duty was to wait upon her. 
Pattie Clark, a clever and shrewd lady^s maid, who 
thoroughly understood the art of hair-dressing, and all 
other dressing. More than once, Lady Laure saw this 
maid looking at her with wonder, fear and anxiety. Then 
everything else was forgotten in the hurry of preparing for 
their journey to France; and a fortnight after she had 
reached Fernholme, the Marquis, Lady Laure and a retinue 
of servants started for Paris. - 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


73 


CHAPTEE XV. 

AN ALAEMING ILLNESS. 

The marquis was the happy possessor of a very beauti- 
ful mansion in Paris, one that he had recently purchased, 
called the Hotel Bourdon. It was in the Champs Elysees, 
one of the most delightful parts of Paris. It was beauti- 
fully decorated and furnished, nothing more delightful 
could be imagined. 

Lady Laure was delighted. This was different from 
Frome Castle, Fernholme or any other place she had seen, 
and in its way even more delightful. The marquis laid 
down a plan for the months they were to spend there, 
from which he did not intend to deviate. 

Masters came in the morning, from whom Lady Laure 
took lessons in drawing, music, French. At noon came 
Mme. la Comtesse Le Care, a lady who had lost all her 
worldly wealth, and who gave lessons to the daughters of 
the aristocracy in deportment, manner, etiquette, and 
fashion. 

La comtesse was delighted with her new pupil ; she had 
no other who learned so quickly and who did so well. She 
assured the marquis that in less than two months his beau- 
tiful niece would be ready to take her place in the highest 
society in the land. He was delighted. 

In the afternoon they drove from one place to another, 
from the Louvre to Versailles; then the marquis gave her 
by far the most valuable lessons she learned. He talked 
to her of the pictures, of the statues, of painters, of sculp- 
tors, until she could have passed an examination in the 
lives of great men. 

The evenings were devoted to the opera, to concerts or 
to reading. A pleasant life; Lady Laure enjoyed it to her 
hearths content; the hours flew like moments. She had 
grown warmly attached to her uncle, who on his part was 
devoted to his charming niece. 

As for remorse or thought, she had the happy faculty of 
trampling both under foot, of driving away all unpleasant 
memories, and of living only in the present. The marquis 


74 


A N-AMELESS SIK. 


amused both her and himself by drawing such brilliant 
pictures of the future that she was bewildered by them. 

There was but one drawback to the happiness of her life, 
and that was she never felt quite well. Her dainty, brill- 
iant bloom had faded. The marquis at first was concerned, 
but after a time he said, it must be the change from the 
fresh, country air to the warmer, closer atmosphere of a 
close city. He asked her continually if she were happy, if 
she were well, the answer always was: 

Yes, quite happy — quite well. 

But she was not well; she was compelled to own it to 
herself; she was far from well. The strange sensation of 
giddiness and weakness, of sudden fainting, came over her 
again and again. It might be her fancy, but it seemed to 
her that she looked ill; her face was certainly changed; it 
had a pale, worn look. She was more troubled over that 
than over the fact of not feeling well; she knew how proud 
the marquis was of her beauty, and if she lost it! But 
why should she lose it? 

Bring me a hand-mirror, Pattie,^^ she said one morn- 
ing to her maid, who brought her a beautifully ieweled 
little mirror. 

She looked into it long and carefully. Ah, surely the 
face was changed. That was not the lovely, radiant face 
that always looked as though it had caught its bloom from 
the roses and its sweetness from the dew; it was pale, with 
a strange kind of expression on it. 

“ Pattie,^^ she said, suddenly, I do not think I look so 
well or so healthy as I used to do. 

There was a strange look on the girPs face as she an- 
swered : 

Ho, my lady, I do not think you do. 

I do not feel quite well,^^ continued Lady Laure. I 
used to be so strong, now I never feel well. The fragrance 
of fiowers, the heat of the sun, any little trifle that never 
afiected me before, now makes me feel faint and ill. I 
hope I am not going to have a long illness.'’^ 

‘‘ I hope not, my lady,^^ but the maid^s voice was cold 
and hard. 

Why do you look at me so strangely, Pattie?^^ asked 
Lady Laure, impatiently. 

“ I beg your pardon, my lady; I was only thinking that 


A KAMELESS STK. 75 

if you do not feel better soon^ it would be as well to consult 
a doctor/^ 

She watched her beautiful young mistress as she spoke, 
but in that lovely face there was no trace of confusion or 
fear; noting that, something of relief came over the face of 
the maid. 

That I certainly will do,"’^ said Lady Laure. ‘‘ I had 
thought of it, but my uncle is always so anxious I did not' 
like to mention it. 

‘‘ It can be done without troubling the marquis, my 
lady, if you really wish it,^^ said the maid. 

‘‘ Why should I not really wish it? How strangely you 
look at me; or perhaps it is my fancy. I feel better this 
morning, better than 1 have done for some time. I must 
dress quickly; Monsieur George comes at ten for my draw- 
ing lesson. 

Monsieur George came; the drawing lesson over, the 
countess came, and Lady Laure studied the art of presenta- 
tion to great people; then, when the morning^s study was 
over, she felt tired and rang for Pattie. 

Bring me a glass of orange-flower water, Pattie, she 
said. ‘‘ I am very tired. 

She was standing .against the superbly carved mantel- 
piece when Pattie returned. She took the water from her 
hand, drank it, then suddenly, without a word or cry, fell 
on her face. The maid gave a little cry, then raised and 
laid her back on the sofa, her face white as death; she 
wrung her hands over the senseless figure of her mistress. 

“ I knew, she said to herself, ^‘that it was so; I felt 
sure of it. Oh, Heaven, what shall I do? I wish I had 
never come; yet, poor lady, she will need a friend. I will 
not sit in judgment on her. I do not know the story of 
her life; there are secrets in it unknown to Monsieur le 
Marquis, unknown, it seems to me, even to herself, poor 
lady.^^ 

There was a scared, terrified' look on Pattie^s face as 
though she were in the presence of a foe she dreaded. 
Then she gave the whole of her attention to her mistress; 
the white eyelids quivered, the white lids trembled, a faint 
sigh came from them, and Lady Laure was herself again. 

1 have been very ill, Pattie?^ ^ she said, wonderingly. 

Very ill, my lady,^^ was the low reply. 


76 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


I can not tell. I can not think why I feel ill/^ she 
continued. 

‘ ‘ If you take my adrice, my lady, you will go to yOur room 
and rest for a time. I will tell Monsieur le Marquis that 
you have fatigued yourself; then later on we must see what 
can be done for you.^^ 

She made no resistance, but went to her room; and Pat- 
^tie took her some luncheon. The marquis was pleased that 
she should rest, while the maid went about her duties with 
a pale, scared face, wondering what, in the name of 
Heaven, she should do. 

“ My lady,^^ she said, I wish you would do as you said 
this morning — see a doctor. 

‘‘ I will, said Lady Laure, that fainting fit frightened 
me. I will, Pattie.^^ 

Still Pattie did not go away. She began to play nerv- 
ously with the tassels of the sofa-cushion. 

^ “ My lady/^ she said, gently, should you think it a 

great liberty if I made a suggestion to you?^^ 

‘‘No, certainly not,^^ said Lady Laure. 

“ There are many English doctors in Paris; and it would 
be much better, I am sure, to go to one of them. 

“ I could not speak French well enough to go to a 
French one,^^ she said, with a smile; but no smile came on 
the face of her maid. 

“ I should like to suggest another thing, my lady, if I 
dare,^^ said Pattie. “ If you would but take my advice 
and go as a stranger; that is, go as a poor person, not as 
Lady Laure de Bourdon. 

“ Why should I do 'that she asked, quickly. 

“ Ah, my lady, if you would but be persuaded. You 
see — pardon me — I know more of the world than you do. 

Lady Laure smiled. 

“ I can not see what your knowledge of the world has to 
do with my seeing a doctor,^' she said. 

“ I do, my lady. I wish you would let me persuade you 
to go plainly dressed; take si, fiacre there, and do not tell 
your name to the doctor. 

“ I will do it if you will give me a sensible reason why, 
Pattie. 

“ I can do that, my lady. I am afraid that you are 
really ill enough to need sensible advice. Now if a doctor 
knows you, knows that you are Ladyde Bourdon, he would 


A NAMBLESS SIIT. 77 

be all politeness and ceremony, but he would iiot tell you 
what ailed you. You see there is this difference between a 
rich patient and a poor one — the doctor tells the poor one 
straightforward and honestly what is the matter; from a 
wealthy lady he hides the truth. If you want sound, sensi- 
ble advice do as I say, my lady.^^ 

She laughed carelessly. 

‘‘ I will do it, Pattie, if it be only because you are so ear- 
nest over it.^^ 

The maid looked wistfully at her beautiful mistress. 

‘‘ I am sure, my lady,’^ she said, ‘‘ that you will be 
much pleased that you have taken my advice.'’^ 

Lady Laure laughed again; it was but a trifling matter 
to her. She was anxious over herself, but not to any great 
extent. She had had little to do with doctors; since she 
lay ill with the scarlet-fever, as a child, she had hardly seen 
one. It mattered little to her whether a fashionable phy- 
sician drove up to the house in his carriage, or whether 
she went to some hard-working doctor, who would tell her 
the truth in brusque accents, and tell her how to get well 
quickly. 

If my lady will allow me,-’^ said Pattie, I will make 
inquiries about the English doctors in Paris, and find out 
the best.^^ 

How very per^stent she is, thought Lady Laure. 

There seems to me something strange about it/^ 

She made some kindly, careless answer, and the maid left 
the room. 

Lady Laure thought her more persistent still, when on 
the following morning she brought her a list of English 
doctors resident in Paris. 

I think Doctor Heming would be the best, my lady; 
he lives in the Eue de POrme, number fifteen. Will you 
try him?^^ 

‘‘ He will do as well as any one else,^^ said my lady. 

Then Pattie added: 

‘ ^ I should not like you to go alone. If you do not ob- 
ject, my lady, I should like to go with you.^^ 

Why should I object?^^ said Lady Laure, with an in- 
dolent smile. You are very good to take such an inter- 
est in me. 


78 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

AM DOUBLY KUINED. 

Dk. Heming was no longer young, and he had had a 
hard fight with the world. His house, No. 15 Rue de 
POrme, was shabby and ill -furnished; he himself was glad 
to receive patients at home, to attend them out of doors, 
to do anything by which he could honestly earn his fee. 
He was too honest even to be fashionable; too blunt and 
straightforward to be much liked. He was clever; but, 
unfortunately, in this world honesty and cleverness do not 
always make headway. He was sitting alone in his surgery 
one morning, reading up some melancholy case when his 
servant announced: 

Two young women. English.'’^ 

The doctor looked up hastily. 

Englishwomen — are you quite sure, Jean? Are they 
ladies?’^ 

‘‘ They are well-dressed; and one looks delicate, was 
the answer. 

Then Dr. Heming knew that Jean was not in a com- 
municative mood. He went into the saloon, and saw the 
two Englishwomen himself. 

It is not I who want to see you, doctor,^’ said Pattie, 
abruptly; he had looked at her first; it is — Miss Clarke. 

They had agreed that Lady Laure should take her 
maid^s name, and she had consented, thinking it all great 
nonsense. Dr. Heming looked at the so-called Miss 
Clarke; through the thick veil he saw what he thought to 
be an extremely beautiful face, very pale, with brilliant 
eyes, and framed in golden brown hair. 

Would you like to see me alone?^^ he asked, in a hes- 
itating fashion. 

It was Pattie who answered. 

‘‘Yes, I will wait here. 

My lady shrugged her shoulders; what nonsense it all 
seem'ed to her. Then she followed the doctor to the 
surgery. 

Pray be seated, he said; and Lady Laure took the 
chair he placed for her. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


79 


The doctor sat down. 

You complain, then,^^ he said, after a time, ^^of 
faintness, weakness, and a strange languor new to you/^ 

Then followed a string of questions, all of which she an- 
swered carelessly enough. 

But as she answered him the doctor^s face darkened and 
grew puzzled. ^ 

‘‘ Would you mind raising your veil?^^ he said. Talk- 
ing without seeing the face of a person one addresses is 
like talking in the dark.”^^ 

She raised her veil, and the doctor was startled by the 
delicate loveliness of the fair young face before him; yet 
his own grew more anxious as he looked at her. He left 
his chair; he walked once or twice up and down the room, 
then sat down again. 

A few more words and his face grew more anxious. 

"‘It has to be done,'Mie muttered, between his teeth. 
“ Why need I care?^" 

Yet she was so young and so beautiful, he hated to say 
the words. Suddenly he looked at her. 

“ You did not tell me that you were married,^^ he said. 

“ I am not,'’ ^ she answered. 

“For your own sake 1 hope you are,^Mie said, ear- 
nestly. 

Then, for the first time, some faint suspicion of the ter- 
rible truth must have crossed her mind, for her face fiushed 
crimson, then grew pale as death. 

“ For your own sake,^^ repeated the doctor, solemnly, 
“ I hope you are married. I should not like to think you 
were not. Have you .really no suspicion of what is 
wrong? 

“ You frighten me,^^ she said, in a faint voice. 

The doctor ^s heart was deeply touched. 

“ There is nothing to be frightened at,'’'’ he said, gently; 
“but I am compelled to speak straightforwardly to you; 
you have evidently no idea of what is wrong. I repeat 
that, for your own sake, I hope you are married. Do you 
know that in a short time from now, in four or five 
months, you will have a little child ?^^ 

He never forgot the cry that came to her white lips; it 
seemed to ring through the house; then she fell, like one 
dead, at his feet. 

“ What on earth shall I do?^^ he asked himself. “ This 


80 


A NAMELESS SIK. 


is a strange" affair. Who can she be^ I wonder? A lady, 
I am quite certain. What a face!^^ 

He ‘raised her and placed her in an easy-chair, then 
looked round for some strong essence or fragrant water. 

He was thankful when, after some time, her eyes opened, 
and she looked round with a bewildered gaze. His words 
seemed to return to her when she saw his face. 

It is not true,^^ she cried. You did not mean it. I 
would rather be dead than it should be true."^^ 

‘‘My dear lady,^'he said, gently, “it is indeed true. 
You have sought me to know the truth; I tell it to you.^^ 

“ It can not be,^^ she cried. “ Oh, Heaven, it can not 
be.^^ 

He made no answer; he understood that no words would 
avail against that wild, hysterical outburst; she must grow 
calm before he could reason with her; she was like one 
mad in her despair; she wept bitter, passionate tears; she 
looked at the doctor. 

“ I shall kill myself, she said. 

“ It will be the worst form of suicide if you do,^^ he re- 
plied, calmly. 

He stood quite still, waiting while the anguish of her de- 
spair passed; then, when she was exhausted by weeping, he 
said: 

. “ Will you listen to me?^^ 

“ Leave me alone, she cried, wildly; “ leave me quite 
alone for a few minutes; I shall get better alone. 

He went into the room where Pattie sat waiting; she had 
heard that terrible cry, and knew what it meant; she 
looked at the doctor. . • 

“ It is as I feared, then, doctor?^^ she said. 

He made no answer. 

She continued : 

“ You need not fear to speak to me; it was I who per- 
suaded her to come here; and I shall, in all human proba- 
bility, be her only friend; the only person who can help 
her.^^ 

“ Who and what is she?^^ asked the doctor. 

“ That is her secret — not mine,^^ said Pattie. 

And then Dr. Heming thought it was time he returned 
to his patient. She had tried hard to control herself. She 
had longed to be alone that she might give full vent to her 
sorrow and despair. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


81 


‘‘ It can not be/^ she said to herself, fate would not, 
could not be so cruel; it is too cruel; for if this be true, I 
am doubly ruined. I can never go back to Owen, and my 
uncle will send me away. What shall I do? It can not be 
true. I will not believe itl^^ 

She looked up at him when he re-entered the room. 
Doctor, she said, ‘^I pray you unsay those terrible 
words; they are driving me mad. Unsay them — they kill 
me with horror you can not understand. I will give all 
the jewels, all the money I have, if you will but unsay 
them.'’^ 

“ Poor child,^^ he said, compassionately, how can I 
unsay them? And if I did my words would be false. Is there 
nothing better that I can do to help you than that? Have 
you no mother living?'’^ 

No,^ ’ she sobbed, my mother is dead.^^ 

And — do not fear to trust me, child — have you no 
husband living?^ ^ 

With these terrible words still ringing in her ears she 
dare not say no. She felt that the word must kill her. 
What she did was signjjpcant enough. She drew off her 
glove and showed him her left hand; it was small, beauti- 
ful, and white; gems of great value glittered on it; but 
there was no ring — no wedding-ring. 

I see,^"^ he said, with a groan. BIbr child, have you 
any friends ?^^ 

No. I have no friend to whom I can tell this,^^ she 
replied. Oh, my God, what shall I do? What will be- 
come of me?^^ 

‘‘There is some mystery here,^^ thought the doctor; 
“ this is not one of the common cases of going wrong; 
there is a mystery. 

“ I am at a loss what to suggest to you,^^ he said. I 
can give you a few simple directions, and if you ever want 
help you can always send for me. I have really nothing 
more to add. 

He looked startled at the munificent fee placed in his 
hands. 

“ I wish I could do more to help you,^^ he said; “ it is a 
terrible position for you. 

“ I shall need no help/^ she said, in a low voice; “ the 
horror of it will kill me.'’^ 


82 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


She held out her hand to him, with a simple, child-like 
grace. 

‘‘ Thank you,^^ she said, you have been very good to 
me. The best that you can wish for me now is that I 
may die soon.'’^ 

He was heartily grieved for her; that fair, troubled face 
haunted him all night. He could not forget the sad voice 
or the wistful eyes; he would have given much to have 
understood the mystery that surrounded her. 

I shall hear of her again, he said, poor child. She 
will send for me in her distress. 

While Lady Laure went back to her magnificent home 
like one utterly bewildered she spoke no word to Pattie; 
she had quite forgotten her. She heard and remembered 
nothing except those terrible words. Pattie was silent, 
too. S^he knew the time would come when her young mis- 
tress must speak to her. 

Lady Laure fully realized the horror of her position 
when she was at home and alone. The marquis had not 
seen her for some hours, and he was kinder than usual. 

• He had bought her some magnificent ornaments in the 
Palais Eoyal; he had ordered a superb set of dresses for 
her. 

She forced herself to listen and to smile; she put the 
horror away from her, and tried to seem cheerful, bright 
and interesting; sliS talked to him about her lessons, about 
M. Georges and la comtesse; she told him some piquant 
little anecdotes that she had heard; but through it all there 
was something of languor that made the marquis slightly 
uneasy about her. 

Laure, he said, are you quite sure that you are not 
doing too much? You have been accustomed to a life in 
the free, fresh air. Have you too many lessons — too much 
study? 

Ho. She thanked him; she had not too much to do; 
she would even like more. 

am anxious to improve, she said, and from her 
heart there rose a bitter cry. 

He must soon know all, and then? It would not be for 
much longer that she should enjoy the luxuries and the 
grandeur of this magnificent house. A terrible doom was 
on her, her life of luxury must soon end; then would come 
sorrow, disgrace, shame and ruin. 


83 


A NAMELESS SIN. • 

The marquis had an engagement that evening; and she 
found herself in her room alone with her anguish and de- 
spair. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ DO HELP ME, PATTIE.-” 

Alone with her anguish and despair, what was she to 
do what was to become of her, she could not tell. After 
all, the pain she had inflicted on Owen was all in vain; her 
hopes, ambitions, plans, pleasures, all were ended. Life 
its& was ended for her; she would never go back to Owen. 
He might be willing to receive her— she did not know, she 
was not at all certain about it. He might either forgive 
her, and take her back to the shelter of his honest heart 
again, or he might refuse to take lier back again— to see 
hir, to speak to her. Yet no, even as the thought came to 
her mind she remembered his words, I would follow you 
like a dog and die humbly at your feet. But even if he 
would forgive her and take her home again, could she go? 
Could she voluntarily take pp again the life she had laid 
down? could she return to poverty, the small house, the 
small means, the shabby dress, the privations, the absence 
of all that she had learned to consider as life.-' could she 
bear it? Ho, a thousand times no. Had she never known 
what this life was she could have endured the other; hav- 
insr learned this, no other would be endurable. 

As she sat there thoughts of Owen pressed upon her; 
how pleased he would have been. She remembered one 
day, when they were out together, they had met a pretty, 
fair-haired, toddling child, and Owen had raised it in his 

strong arms. ci,, n i n i ^ 

‘‘ Do you love children, Owen?'^ she had asked. 

^^Love them? Yes, he answered, in his grave, quiet 
voice. I have to thank Heaven for the best gift in the 
world in my dear wife. I think my happiness would be 
quite complete if to that were added the gift of a little 
child. 

If she knew how cruel she had been to him; how deso- 
late and bare his life had been made by her. Her heart 
softened to him; after all, he was the best, truest, kindest 
friend she had in the world. 


84 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


Then she shook all such thoughts from her mind; she 
had her own difficulty and distress to think about. What 
was she to do? 

She did not know until then how dear this beautiful life 
was to her; how she prized its grandeur and magnificence; 
how she loved its ease and luxury. 

I could never go back to 'that life again/^ cried the 
unhappy girl as she wrung her hands. What shall I 
do?^^ 

Her quick imagination foreshadowed every terrible scene 
that might happen — how her uncle would make the discov- 
ery, would overwhelm her with reproaches. She could so 
well imagine the lofty contempt of the aristocrat for such a 
fault as hers; he would be sure to drive her away from his 
home; she would be a reproach and a by- word even to the 
very servants there^ when she was driven forth from her 
home. W^here was she to go? She would have to die in 
the ditch by the road-side; there would be none to help her. 

It was too terrible, too cruel; the unhappy girl walked to 
and fro; she wrung her hands, she tossed her white arms in 
the air, she cried aloud in her misery, but there was no 
comfort for her. Once a good impulse came to her, which 
it would have been well had she carried out; the impulse 
to go to her uncle and tell him all; confess her fault to him, 
tell him the whole story of her marriage, its concealment, 
and now the terrible consequences of it. She would have 
saved herself and others endless pain had she done so; but 
she was afraid; she could not tell the courtly, polished, 
elegant marquis that story; she did not care to own to him 
that she had married a gardener, that she. Lady Laure de 
Bourdon, was the lawful wife of Lord Cardin's employe. 
No, let her suffer what she might, she could never tell him 
that. 

She bent her golden head and wept bitter tears for the 
dead mother who would have befriended her. Still the 
question puzzled her as much as ever; what was she to do? 
She had no hope, no prospect of escape; but it seemed to 
her that if she could only tell her terrible secret to some 
one, it would be less hard to bear. She would tell Pattie; 
she must have one friend and confidante. Pattie had always 
been kind to her. How thankful she was now that she had 
taken her advice and had gone incog, to visit a doctor. 
What would have become of her had it been otherwise? 


A KAMELESS SIK. 85 

She would trust Pattie; she was fertile and quick of re- 
source. 

She waited until the evening following, then told her 
maid to wait in her room as she wanted to speak to her; 
and Pattie stood patiently listening for her lady^s footstep. 

Lady Laure entered the room and closed the door. She 
had kept up appearances well during the day; but now that 
all need of restraint had passed away, she sunk upon the 
sofa, pale, exhausted, and trembling. When she had re- 
covered she called Pattie to her.^ 

Sit down by my side, Pattie, she said; I have much 
to tell 3^ou; I want you to be my friend and confidante. 

“ I will be anything you please, my lady,^^ she replied. 

Then Lady Laure told her story; but in one respect she 
spoke falsely, for she told her that her husband was dead. 

‘‘ You understand, Pattie,^^ she said, the peculiar posi- 
tion. I had only been married a few months and I heard 
that I am, or ought to be, heiress of this immense fortune, 
yet it would all have been lost to me if my uncle heard 
one word of my marriage. My husband was — was — was 
dead then; and it seemed to me useless to tell my uncle I 
had been married, and so lose this fortune. 

It would have been quite useless, as your husband was 
dead,^^ said Pattie; ‘‘ of course, had he been living it 
would have been quite another thing. 

Then Lady Laure showed her wedding-ring. To do her 
justice, no doubt as to the entire truth of her story ever 
entered Lattices mind. That story explained everything 
that had puzzled her; it left her lady pure and blameless; 
guilty only of one thing, that was of having concealed her 
marriage from her uncle; and, to Lattices mind, the con- 
cealment that had purchased this wondrous wealth was of 
very little matter; it fact she did not consider it wrong at 
all. 

Now, Pattie,^ ^ said Lady Laure, you see that I have 
trusted you as I have trusted no one else on earth; you are 
the only one to whom I have told my story, the only one 
who knows that I have been niarried; but I am safe in 
your hands, you will be true to me, I know.^^ 

“ I will be true to you, my lady, until I die,^^ was the 
answer, and the girl kept her word. 

Then Lady Laure had to tell her why she trusted her, 
why she needed a friend, and what the doctor had said. 


86 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


I knew it, my lady/'’ said the girl, quietly; it was 
for that I persuaded you to do as you did; it is no surprise 
to me/^ 

Ah, then you can understand all my grief and despair; 
in any way it means ruin to me. If to save myself from 
my uncle^s anger, I tell him that I have been married, he 
will never forgive me either the marriage or its conceal- 
ment. I know him so well, better than any one else; he 
is so proud, so truthful, he would never forgive me. Pat- 
tie, and there is notlung but a life of misery, poverty, and 
shame before me; if he finds it out, and I do not confess 
my marriage, it would be even worse. 

Would you mind telling me, my lady, who your hus- 
band was/^ asked the maid, thoughtful^. 

Quite a poor man, belonging to the lower class,^^ she 
answered. 

Ah, then, it would never do to confess it; if he 
had been a brave soldier, a gentleman, however poor, the 
marquis might have pardoned it.'’^ 

He would never forgive it, Pattie; at least, not now. 
If I had told him before, it would have been all right, per- 
haps; yet I know it would not. Can you not think of any 
way in which you can help me? You seem to be so clever, 
so quick for resource — think for me, Pattie. I have no 
mother, sister, or friend — I have only you.-’^ 

The proud Lady Laure bent her head on the two honest 
hands and wept bitter tears. 

Do help me, dear Pattie, she said. When I am 
rich, I will make you rich; I will give you anything in this 
world, if you will but help me. Do try, Pattie. 

She was like some beautiful, troubled child in her bitter 
distress. 

I will help you, my lady; I would give my life for 
you. I will help you in some way or other. The only 
thing that I can see, under the circumstances, is, as the 
secret has been kept from the marquis until now, it had 
better be kept from him altogether. 

“ If we could but manage that,^^ said Lady Laure, with 
a deep sigh. 

‘‘ That is what we must try for. If my lord would go 
back to England for a few months, and leave you here; or 
if I could persuade him to let you go with me for a few 
weeks into the country. 


A N-AMELESS Sliq".- 


87 


Lady Laure^^s white face brightened. 

Ah, if that could be done, Pattie. Do not make me 
hope. I have been so long in the depth of despair, I dare 
not hope; but, oh, if that could be! I will make you a rich 
woman, Pattie, if you will help me.^^ 

I do not want reward, my lady. I am so truly sorry 
for you — I understand so well the position in which you 
are placed. I see it and understand it. Of course when 
your husband died, you had no idea of this, and it was 
quite natural that you should wish to conceal your mar- 
riage from the marquis. I will help you, because the pity 
of it stirs my heart, and I am more sorry for you than 
words can tell.^^ 

What can you do, Pattie she asked. 

I must think, my lady. Cases far more difficult than 
this have been managed. I will try my best — I will think 
over every plan that is feasible, my lady. I am glad you 
have trusted me. E’ow you must cheer up; you have 
nothing to reproach yourself with, nothing to make you 
really unhappy; for, under the circumstances, no one 
could ever say that concealing your marriage was a sin; 
and I promise you that by some means or other I will help 
you, so that you may keep your secret still. Eely on that 
promise, and let your heart rest on it, my lady, when you 
feel dull. I will help you in some way.^^ 

If she knew the truth, thought Laure — if she knew 
that I had left my husband living and miserable for the 
sake of a fortune, I wonder if she even would help me? I 
am guilty, and deserve no help, yet I pray Heaven to send 
it to me!^^ 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A EAIKT HOPE. 

. A FEW weeks passed, and as yet no solution of the 
dreadful question had occurred to them. Lady Laure had 
recovered from the first effects of her terrible fright. She 
was calm, self-possessed, and quite herself. She studied 
her uncle more attentively than ever, she talked to him on 
various subjects; she tried to understand his -thoughts, and 
the better she knew him the more convinced she became that 
if he knew all there would be no pardon for her. He was a 


88 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


nobleman by nature as well as by birth. There were cer- 
tain sins and vices he could not tolerate; no amount of 
pride displeased him; he could forgive a man for gam- 
bling, but he had no pardon for so mean a sin as a lie; he 
could not forgive deceit, he could not tolerate deception, 
he could not brook meanness. Lady Laure began to 
understand him better; he might perhaps have pardoned 
her marriage, had she boldly owned it, and pleaded in ex- 
tenuation that she loved her husband, but he would never 
forgive the lie that had cdncealed it, she knew the smile of 
contempt, the wave of the white hand with which he would 
say: 

I have never known a liar, and never will know one; 
from now we are strangers 

That would be the end of her romance, if ever one ink- 
ling of the truth came to him. Every morning her first 
anxious question was: 

‘‘ Well, Pattie, have you thought of anything yet?^^ 

And the answer was always: 

Not yet, my lady; but I shall think of something; you 
will be safe.^" 

The days were passing into weeks, the weeks into 
months; not much longer could she keep this terrible secret 
which was like devouring fire in her heart. There were 
times when great drops of anguish stood on her brow, and 
the strength of her limbs failed her. What should she do 
if he found it out?’^ 

She had tried to persuade' him to let her go into some 
school; it would be easier to leave there for a time than to 
leave him; but he would not hear of the plan. 

The truth is, Laure, he said, ‘‘lam too fond of you 
to part with you; I do not know how I lived without you. 
I am quite sure that I could not live without you now, even 
for one week. You do not know how I have learned to 
love you.^^ 

Words that would have filled her wdth proud triumph a 
short time since, but now they pierced her heart with sor- 
row and dismay. 

What should she do? 

“ I have been thinking, Laure, said her uncle, “ th*at 
as you have improved so very much, I may shorten the 
time of our exile. I noticed you yesterday. I consider my- 
self a good judge of manners, and yours now are perfect; 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


89 


there is not the faintest tinge of rusticity about them; we 
ought to thank Madame la Comtesse, I think; we may 
really return to Fernholme sooner than I thought. Are 
you pleased to hear it, Laure?^^ 

She threw her arms round his neck and kissed him, lest 
he should see the white face she must hide; then, when 
the color returned to it, she raised it and looked at him. 

‘‘How could I be anything but pleased, uncle?^^ she 
asked. “ Paris is very bright and pleasant, but Fern- 
holme is home.^^ 

“ You are right, my darling, he s^id; “ it is home, and 
you shall be its queen. ^ 

What should she do? What could she do? She clinched 
her little white hands until the rings made cruel red dents 
in them. The marquis, all unconscious, continues: 

“ I can not tell you, Laure, how I look forward to it; I 
shall be so proud of my beautiful niece — so proud to sec 
you take the head of my table, the management of my 
house; so proud to present you to my friends. We must 
talk this matter over again; I think really we may shorten 
our exile very much. 

She listened calmly, but in her own heart she was crying 
out all the time. What should she do? What could she do? 

The moment her uncle quitted the house she went to 
Pattie. 

“ Pattie, she cried, in despair, “ have you thought of 
nothing yet?^^ and the answer was the same as usual: 

“ Not yet, but an idea will soon come.*^^ 

“It will come too late,^^ cried the unhappy girl. 
“ What must I do? Had any one ever such an unhappy 
lot as mine? Was there ever such a sorrow, Pattie? I am 
going mad with sorrow and suspense. 

Clever as Pattie was, she could find no solution to the 
difidculty. If the marquis cared less for his niece, it would 
have been easier to manage; as it was, he seemed to grudge 
every moment she spent out of his sight; that made the real 
difficulty — one that she could not see her way through. 
Pattie became as anxious as her mistress, if not more so. . 
Lady Laure placed her faith and reliance on Pattie, while 
Pattie saw at present no means of justifying it. 

“ It is more than enough to turn my hair,^^ she said to 
herself; “ I can not sleep at night for thinking of it, yet I 


90 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


can see no way. I am so sorry for her that I would do 
anything on earth to help her, yet what can I do?’' 

One morning the marquis entered his niece’s boudoir; ho 
held an open letter in his hand. Pattie was there arran- 
ging some lace; she rose to go when the marquis appeared; 
but, by a movement of his hand, he indicated a wish that 
she should stay. It never occurred to the proud Marquis 
de Bourdon that servants had ears or eyes; he talked be- 
fore them as though they were quite without those senses. 
Pattie resumed her seat. 

“ My dear Laure,” said the marquis, “ I wish to consult 
you. ” 

She looked at him in some little wonder; it was not often 
that he consulted her. 

“ I have received a letter from my solicitors this morn- 
ing,” he said; “ and they tell me that there is likely to be 
a lawsuit connected with a certain right of way over my 
property at Pernholme. Now, if there should be a law- 
suit, I must be at home; not, you understand, for one mo- 
ment, that I distrust my solicitors, but because I am anx- 
ious to win. It is an old dispute, and the settling of it will 
entail reading over all the deeds. I must be there. ” 

She made no answer; only Heaven knew the suspense of 
the tortured heart. If he went, all would be well; she 
could keep her secret. He mistook the pallor that spread 
over her face for anxiety for him. 

“ There is nothing to dread, Laure,” he said; “ it is 
only a point of honor, after all, nothing more; it has been 
a vexed question for years, whether the inhabitants of 
King’s Wynne have a right of way through certain parts of 
Pernholme Park. I maintain they have not, tjiey main: 
tain that they have; and now it seems possible that the 
question will be tried by law.” 

She tried to speak calmly as she asked him if his pres- 
ence was really needful; she could feel rather than see Pat- 
tie’s eyes telling her that this was the opportunity, this was 
what they had longed foi% 

“ I must be there,” he said; “ I am vain enough to 
fancy that no one understands the deeds and papers so well 
as myself; pd I am quite determined that it shall be fought 
to the last inch; if the people had asked my permission to 
use that part of the park, I should certainly have given it 
to them, fully and freely; but I will not have it taken for 


A KAMELESS SIK* 91 

granted; even if they lose and I win, I shall give it to 
them, but it shall be a gift, not a privilege. 

‘‘That is the spirit of the old French nobles, uncle,” 
she said. He was delighted with her words. 

“ You are right, Laure,^^ he said; “ we give freely that 
which we allow no man to take from us. I come to consult 
you. If there should be a lawsuit, and I am compelled to 
go, would you like to remain here, or will you come home 
with me?” Again he mistook the deathly pallor of her 
face for the intensity of her anxiety for him. “You shall 
copie to Fernholme with pleasure if you will,” he said; 
“ indee(J, I should not like to go without you.” 

She felt like a drowning man who sees the last plank 
drawn from under his feet; yet she was careful; it would 
not do to lose this most precious chance by undue haste. 

“ Of course,” she said, slowly, “ it would be far better 
to be with you, uncle; but you would be four months 
away, you say?” 

“ Yes; quite that, Laure,” he answered. 

“ And in four months I should have perfected myself in 
French, and should be able to give up study, whereas, if I 
go with you now, I should be compelled to return.” 

“ Yes, that is true,” he said, thoughtfully. 

“ Still, if I can be of any use to you, uncle, or of any 
service to you, or you would like me with you — but you 
will be surrounded by clever men, and you will have no 
time to see me, even if I go. ” 

“ Not much, Laure. Perhaps, after all, it would be 
more sensible for you to remain here and finish your stud- 
ies; it would be very dull for you at Fernholme, as I should 
be continually occupied with business.^’ 

The mistress and the maid looked at each other; the 
same thought was written on both faces: 

“ This is our opportunity — let us take it.” 

Lady Laure wanted to know more; her heart was beat- 
ing in a tumult of suspense. 

“It is not all settled then?” she said. “ You do not 
know whether there will be a lawsuit or not?” 

“No, not at present,” he replied. 

She looked calmly in his face. 

“ When shall you know, uncle?” she asked. 

“In a week or ten days,” he replied; “ then we will 
consider the question disposed of. If I go to England, you 


92 


A NAMELESS SIN, 


remain here, Laiire, and I shall rejoin you when the law- 
suit is ended; then we will go on to Italy together/^ 

‘‘ Yes/^ she replied, quietly; that will be very nice/’ 
He bent down and kissed her, then quitted the room. 
Patitie went up to her mistress. 

What a chance, my lady!’^ she said; what a wonder- 
ful chance! If he goes, you need never have another me- 
mentos fear about your secret. 

If he goes, 00 she cried, in feverish haste; will you 
tell me, Pattie, how I am to live — how I am to live until I 
know whether he is going or not? — how I am to bear the 
suspense? It will drive me madjoo t 

Try not to think of it, it is only a week. He may even 
hear before that. A week soon passes, and I feel a certain 
hope that the marquis will go to England and leave us here, oo 
And I have a presentiment that he will not go. Pat- 
tie. It is too good to be true. It seems a chance such as 
would be given to a good person. ” 

You are good, my lady,^^ was the half -indignant an- 
swer; and the chance will be yours." 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A GUILTY WOMAN SUSPENSE. 

A WEEK, a whole week of unutterable suspense; how 
was she to live through it? The more she thought of the 
matter, the more clearly she saw that if the marquis would 
go away, all would be well. Pattie was ingenious, clever, 
full of contrivance; she would be sure to think of some 
plan to help her, and in his absence all would be well. She 
thought of it so continuously, her mind and thoughts 
brooded on it so entirely, without intermission, that she 
had no other idea. She seemed only to live to know how 
this would be settled — every morning she met Pattie with 
the same question: 

Is there a letter from England?^^ 

And the answer was, No.'’^ 

For the first three or four days, she would not yield to 
her forebodings. She tried resolutely to assure herself it 
would be all right, he would be quite sure to go. She did 
not dare to ask him, lest he should think she was over anx- 
ious, and so suspect something; but on the fifth day, when 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


93 


Pattie gave the usual answer, No, there is no letter from 
England, she said to herself that she could bear the sus- 
pense no longer. When her uncle joined her at dinner, 
she said to him: 

Have you any news from England, uncle? Will you 
be compelled to go, do you think 

I am beginning to think not,-’^ he replied. I fancy 
that I should have heard before now had there been any 
prospect of a lawsuit. My solicitors said they would write 
and tell me at once when the decision was made. As I 
have not heard, I should imagine that it is all at ati end. 

She turned her face away, lest he should see its deadly 
pallor. 

You must be pleased, she said, briefly. 

I do not know that I am,^^ he replied, laughingly; 
‘^on the contrary, I think I should have liked the excite- 
ment of a lawsuit; not that it is at all settled yet. I may 
hear by any post; I can not possibly tell.^^ 

It was not wise, she felt, to continue the subject. More 
eagerly than ever she watched the post. Pattie dreaded in 
the morning to ^ter her room — the beautiful, pleading 
face, the wistful eyes, touched her heart so deeply. The 
last three days told dreadfully on Lady Laure; her face 
grew quite worn with constant watching; she x?ould not 
sleeps or rest for the one thought that pursued her con- 
stantly — Would there be a letter from England; would he 
have to go or not? 

At last the seventh day came, and Pattie went to her 
lady’s room earlier than usual. 

‘‘ My lady,” she said, there is a letter from England 
this morning; the valet has taken it to the marquis.’’ 

It had come, then — the letter that was to be either her 
death-warrant, or to contain hope that would lead to her 
safety. It had come, the very knowledge of it made her 
faint and* ill. 

Of course you can not tell what news the letter con- 
tains, Pattie. I hope I shall know it soon. I suffer so 
terribly from this suspense — so terribly. My uncle will be 
sure to tell me when he sees me, will he not?” 

She dressed with trembling hands; she went down into 
the breakfast room and there waited for him. In after 
years she marveled how she had lived through that time. 
The delay seemed to her a bad omen; if the marquis had 


94 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


the prospect of a long journey before him, he surely would 
have hurried down-stairs, he would not have delayed. At 
length she heard him; he came into the rodm, and after 
the usual greeting had taken place between them, he be- 
gan his breakfast. No word of the letter. 

To the miserable girl who had been counting the mo- 
ments in such terrible anxiety and pain, it seemed to her 
as though he had never cared so much about eating before. 
The claret did not please him; he wanted the yellow seal, 
they had brought him the red; he wanted apricots, and they 
had brought peaches. She had to listen to it all in silence, 
while her heart was beating and her very soul was torn by 
anxiety. She dare not speak, she dare not ask frankly if 
he had had a letter from England; she felt that such a 
question must have betrayed her — she had not self-com- 
mand to ask it; she had too much at stake — it was a mat- 
ter of life and death to her. 

The. marquis began talking about indifferent matters — 
the superiority of French fruit; how, if you wanted to taste 
an orange in perfection, you must pluck it from the tree 
and eat it — while her heart was sick with suspense. Every 
moment her hopes sunk lower and lower — it was quite evi- 
dent that he had no news to tell her. If a journey to Eng- 
land lay before him, all his interest would not be centered 
in Seville oranges and St. Catherine pears. ^ 

‘‘There is no lawsuit, she said to herself, “ and he 
does not think it worth while to mention the matter to me. 
It is so little to him that he has forgotten all about it.^^ 

Her heart sunk, her face grew pale, her breakfast was 
untouched; it was all quite plain to her, he was not going, ^ 
and so her last chance had ended. 

“ Laure,^^ said the marquis, “ you are taking no break- 
fast. The morning is very beautiful ; would you like a 
drive round the Bois de Boulogne?^^ 

Ah, then, she was right; she never knew how^much she 
had hoped before; she was right, he was not going. If he 
had any thought of a journey to England, he would not 
have thought of driving round the Bois de Boulogne. For 
a few minutes the disappointment was so great she could 
not speak; prudence compelled her to make some effort. 

“ I should like it, if you are not engaged, uncle/^ she 
answered. • 

“ No, I have no other engagement/^ he said. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


95 


Then she felt quite sure that her worst fears were re- 
alized; he was not going; then the marquis added, suddenly: 

When I say I have no other engagement, I mean for 
this morning. I have had a letter from my solicitors, and 
.1 start for England to-night. 

Her suspense and agitation had been so great — her dis- 
appointment so bitter and keen — that the reaction was more 
than she could bear; her self-possession suddenly left her, 
and she broke out into a most passionate fit of sobbing. 
The marquis was both puzzled and flattered — puzzled be- 
cause his niece was as a rule so self-possessed and calm; 
flattered because he thought her tears were an evidence of 
how little she liked parting with him. 

My dear Laurel^’ he cried. 

But she recovered herself quickly. She looked up at 
him. 

I beg your pardon, uncle, she said; but you took 
me by surprise. 

And you do not like parting with me?^^ he said. 

‘‘ Whom have I in the world but you?^^ she said. 

‘^You shall go with me, Laure, if you will. I should 
like it best.^^ 

You are very good to me,^^ she sobbed, as she kissed 
his hand; but no, we will leave the arrangement as it 
is, uncle. I will stay here now that I am making rapid 
progress, and will soon finish my studies. 

Then, with the quick tact that was natural to her, she 
began to talk at once about the lawsuit, and so engrossed 
his thoughts and attention he forgot to say another word 
about her going with him. 

How, Laure, if you will dress at once we will have a 
drive,^^ he said. 

And she hastened to her room. Her agitation was so 
great that she could scarcely dress. 

Pattie,^^ she said, hysterically, I am saved; he is go- 
ing to England. 

Pattie saw that she would break down unless some strong 
measures were taken, at once. The agitation had been too 
great for her. 

My lady/’ she said, calmly, his going will be of little 
use unless you control yourself more. Ho one could look 
at you without knowing you have some terrible secret at 
stake; your face flushes and pales, your hands tremble, 


96 


A ^TAMELESS SIK. 


your eyes look as thougli you were waiting for something 
to happen. Unless you control yourself the marquis will 
notice how unlike you are to your real self. 

The result of this little lecture was that Laure behaved 
with such quiet dignity, such wonderful self-possession that 
the marquis was charmed. 

I see,^^ my dear Laure/ ^ he said, as he drove through 
the beautiful Bois de Boulogne, ‘‘I see one thing very 
plainly, you have learned the real secret of a thoroughly 
high-bred woman. 

I am pleased that you think so, uncle. What is it?^^ 
she asked. 

The power of controlling any great expression of emo- 
tion — either joy, fear, surprise, liking, or disliking. There 
is nothing, in my mind, so thoroughly under-bred as that. 
1 am pleased to see that you have mastered that secret and 
made it your own. 

So they talked through the long hours of the sunny 
morning. The Marquis de Bourdon had never been more 
delighted with his niece. The relief to her mind was so 
great; the strain of uncertainty and suspense had been 
almost more than she could bear; now it was over; she had 
infinite faith in Pattie. Only let the marquis once go, 
some plan or other would surely be found, and she should 
be saved; the very thought of it filled her mind and heart 
with a glow of delight and triumph. Once more she could 
look up in his face and listen With a smile as he talked 
about the future and what it held. 

Though,^ ^ he said with a smile, though I am looking 
forward with delight to your making a brilliant marriage, 
still that will be my loss; I shall never be able to live with- 
out you, Laure. 

Then I must stay with you always, uncle; and never 
mind the marriage, she said. 

But he shook his head gravely. 

“ You must be married, Laure; it is not a matter of 
choice or inclination, it is simply that the grand old race of 
the De Bourdons must not die out.^^ 

She made him no answer. The west wind was blowing, 
and the sky was clear. She felt uncomfortable. It was 
one thing to leave Owen for a large fortune, to be a great 
heiress and a great lady, but it was quite another thing to 
marry some one else. 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


97 


I need not complicate my troubles/^ she thought, I 
need not think of that now, I will vanquish one trouble at 
a time, and this is neither first nor foremost. 


CHAPTER XX. 

A LITTLE STKAJSTGEE. 

To the very last she maintained her composure, and the 
marquis left his beautiful niece, quite sure that she deeply 
lamented his loss and would be glad to see him again. 

I like traveling,^ thought the marquis, ‘‘ and I like 
Continental life, but I shall be glad when all this is over, 
and we can settle down in peace. 

All the way to England he thought about how much his 
niece loved him, and how happy he was to have one who 
was like a fair young daughter to him. 

When he had really gone the reaction came; and it 
seemed to Lady Laure almost more than she could bear. 
She had hardly dared hope, now she could open her heart 
and let hope come in. 

In less than half an hour both mistress and maid were 
seated together, discussing what it would be best to do. 

Pattie, shrewd, quick, intelligent, had half a dozen plans 
in her mind. The' most feasible after all was this, that 
Lady Laure should remain where and as she was for a few 
weeks longer, Pattie making it her sole business to tend to 
her; then they would go into the country for a few weeks 
. and all would be well. There would be no need to tell the 
marquis where they went at first; but when the danger 
was over it would be so easy for Lady Laure to write and 
say that she did not feel very well and had gone into the 
country with her maid for a time. Even if he were vexed 
‘over it, it would be too late to interfere; he could but write 
and say that he should prefer Lady Laure returning home. 

Then Pattie had the whole affair arranged in her own 
mind. She knew about twenty miles from Paris a pretty 
little village called Combieres on the Seine, and there it 
would be easy enough to find apartments. - The plan she 
arranged pleased Lady Laure; she embraced her affection- 
ately. 

‘‘You give me new life and new hope, Pattie, she said; 
“ if I live to get over this hour I will thank you.-’^ 


98 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


Everything seemed so well that Lady Laure was full of 
hope. While the f right;, the terror, the pain had been on 
her, she had never dared look forward; she had tried to for- 
get the future; now she dared think of it again, and she 
spent long hours in dreaming of what she might do and of 
what might happen to her, of the glorious triumphs, of the 
wealth, the luxury, the magnificence that awaited her. 

The weeks ran on smoothly enough. Lady Laure de- 
clined the lessons, on the plea that she did not feel strong 
enough for too much study. She said so often that the 
climate of Paris during the winter did not suit her, she 
had a perpetual cold, and should be glad when the spring 
took her back to England again, that the servants and the 
few people that saw her became accustomed to seeing her 
wrapped in a shawl as though the cold weather was too 
much for her. They fell also in the way of treating her as 
though she was an invalid. It became customary to ask, 
‘‘ How is my lady this morning? and Pattie always had 
an answer. 

‘‘ My lady was suffering from cold, or from headache; 
Paris did not seem to agree with her. 

So that when at length it was rumored that my lady was 
going into the country to see if change of air would benefit 
her, no one was surprised. Mme. la Comtesse said that 
change of air cured the most obstinate cold; the servants 
all hoped their young mistress would benefit by it. 

Pattie was adroit enough not to tell any one where they 
were going. She took tickets for Moucerne; from Mou- 
cerne traveled back to Combieres. She had taken every 
precaution; she had purchased a widow^’s costume for 
Laure. 

‘‘You must call yourself a soldier ^s widow, my lady,^^ 
she said; “here in France the soldiers are so dearly be- 
loved ; to say you are the widow of one will be to enlist all 
hearts in your favor. Madame Duvand 1 have written' on 
some of your papers. Will you keep that name? And, 
niy lady, pray excuse me, you must put on your wedding- 
ring. 

She was proud, vain, cold of heart, ready to sacrifice 
everything to gratify her own pride and ambition, yet the 
tears came into her eyes as she once more placed the wed- 
ding-ring on her finger. Poor Owen, how he had loved 


A NAMELESS SIN. 99 

her. How proud and happy he was on the day she first 
wore that ring. 

‘‘ I think/^said LadyLaure to her maid, it must have 
been Heaven that sent you to me. What should I have 
•done without you?^"^ 

But had Pattie known the whole story she would have 
felt quite sure that Heaven had no share in it. Pattie did 
not know -it, and she believed herself to be doing a most 
kind and meritorious action in helping her beloved mis- 
tress. 

That evening in the pretty little village of Combieres, it 
was known that a beautiful* lady, the widow of a brave 
French soldier — a Swiss lady it was rumored — had come to 
the place to seek for lodgings. They were soon found in a 
pretty little house outside the village; the mistress of it 
was the widow of a soldier, so that she was pleased to re- 
ceive Mme. Duvand. 

At last, at last, Pattie, we are at rest,^^ said Lady 
Laure; and she was smiling now that her anxieties were all 
passed — was thankful, too, that they had found rest. 

The next scene in the story was when Lady Laure lay 
watching the setting sun, her little child in her arms. 

How she loved it. She had thought she should dislike it 
— it would be so tiresome a tie, a bore; yet now it seemed 
to her that a perfect heaven of love had opened to her. 
That little, lovely babe, she was never tired of looking at 
it. It never grew less wonderful or less marvelous to her. 

Such a lovely babe. It had her own eyes, soft, bright, 
and beautiful. It had Owen^s grand square brow and 
shapely lips. It had Owen^s clustering hair. She almost ^ 
worshiped it. 

‘‘I can never leave my baby, Pattie, she said. ‘‘I 
would not give him up for all the wealth and titles in Eng- 
land. I would not, indeed. 

Very well, my lady; you shall please yourself,^^ said 
the maid, who loved the child almost as much as his moth- 
er. ‘‘You shall please yourself, and do whatever makes 
you most happy. 

Ho, she could never leave that little child. She kissed 
the tiny pink hands, the little, soft face, the clustering 
curls; all the wonderful mother-love had awoke in her heart 


100 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


all at once. The wealth might perish, she must keep her 
son. 

Twenty times each day she called Pattie to her side, that 
she might admire the little one. 

‘‘Was there everything so perfect she would ask; and^ 
in all sincerity the maid replied: 

“ Never.^^ 

Then, when the soft bright eyes closed, and the little 
rosebud face was still in slumber, she would watch the child 
with tears in her eyes, dlow Owen would have loved him 
— poor Owen — who had now neither wife nor child; how 
he would have thanked Heaven that his heart’s desire had 
been granted; and, as she lay with closed eyes, her busy 
brain was shaping pictures of what might have been. 

She saw Owen on the garden-chair, under the vine leaves, 
his handsome face radiant with delight; his book laid aside 
and the child at his knee; a fair-haired, beautiful child just 
learning to speak, and loving his strong, tall, handsome 
father with all his heart; then she saw Owen rise from his 
seat and place the little one on his shoulder while they 
went to look for bright-eyed squirrels in the wood. She 
could hear the child’s cries of delight. Again it was a 
summer evening, and Owen was busy with the flowers he 
loved so well, yet not too busy to tend the pretty, toddling 
child who walked after him with blind idolatry wherever he 
went; not so busy but that every now and then he made a 
soft ball of the yellow cowslips and threw it into the little 
hands. Picture after picture, until her heart beat and 
burning tears fell from her eyes. 

“ Owen, Owen,” she cried. How cruel she had been to 
him; she had robbed him not only of his wife, but of his 
•child. And he would have loved his child. How cruel she 
had been. She felt an intense longing for Owen to see his 
little son. Strong, noble, handsome Owen, her heart ached 
for him. 

“ Owen,” she cried, aloud; and Pattie the next moment 
was by her side. 

“ My lady, you are fretting,” she said, anxiously; “ you 
must not fret.” 

“ I was thinking about my husband, Pattie,” she said; 

“ I was wishing he could have seen the child.” 

“ You were crying for Owen, my lady. Was Owen your 
husband’s name?” 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


101 


she answered, gently. 

Then you must call the boy Owen, my lady; he should 
have his father ^s name.-’^ 

‘‘I have been thinking of that,^^ she answered. 
should like to call him John Owen; I do not think I could 
bear to use the name Owen continuall}^^^ 

‘‘ That will do very nicely; you can call him John. I 
like the name John; there is something sturdy and English 
about it. But, my lady, you must not grieve. If Heaven 
has taken your husband, this dear little child has been sent 
in his place. 

But my lady shuddered as she listened; she knew better 
than any one else the truth. Heaven had not taken her 
husband; she had left him. What wrong had she not done 
him? And the little son — how he would miss the love and 
care of that strong, noble father, as he grew up. She had 
wronged her child as well as his father; neither one nor the 
other could ever have anything in life that would atone for 
what she had robbed them of. Well might she gather the 
little one in her arms and weep bitter tears over him. Of 
one thing, she said to herself, she was quite determined — 
she would never give up the child. She kissed the little 
hands, the sweet, tiny face. She meant what she said, 
when she cried out again and again that nothing should 
p^rt her from her child. 


CHAPTER XXL 

‘^THE PEICE — OH, MY GOD, THE PRICE!^^ 

Three weeks had passed away, and Lady Laure had 
quite recovered her health and strength. She sat one 
morning thinking deeply. Pattie had been to Paris and 
had brought with her some letters, among which was one 
from the marquis, saying that he hoped to return to Paris 
in a week or ten days; that he had been sorry to hear that 
his niece had not been well; that she had done quite right 
in going into the country for a change; he hoped that she 
felt the benefit of it; he added, also, that he was pleased 
to tell her he had won the lawsuit^ 

That letter had made her think\ery seriously. She had 
said a hundred times over that she would never give up her 
baby — never, come what might; now her, resolve must be 


102 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


put to the test. If she intended to keep the little one, she 
must make her choice at once; she would have to tell the 
marquis all about it, and then would follow his anger and 
her dismissal. She felt she could go with better grace to 
Owen now; he might have refused her before, but with 
the baby in her arms he would welcome her she knew, 
now. Then there stretched out before her the long vista 
of years, the poverty, the privation — the contrast between 
that and her future as Lady Laure was so great. 

Yet she could not leave him there; he lay in his little 
cot, pink, dimpled, and beautiful. How could she put him 
in some other wornan^s arms and know that she might 
never see him again? How could she rest by night or by 
day away from him? She knelt down by his side, and 
bent her beautiful face over the one that was so like her 
own. 

I could not leave my darling, she said. 

The little restless hands would seek her. Ho, she could 
not go. The wealth and title must pass; she would not 
give up her child. She rose up resolutely and went to her 
desk; there was no alternative; she must write and tell her 
uncle. There was one thing — she need not, unless she 
liked, see the marquis again; she could leave France before 
he returned; then she must go to Owen. She had no 
money, no means of providing for herself; she would be 
compelled to go to him at once. 

She sat thinking, with the pen in her hands, wondering 
how she was to begin her letter; wondering what she must 
say. She was never so near telling the truth in her life as 
then. 

A shadow fell between her and the sun; Pattie stood 
waiting to see her. 

My lady,^^ she said, ‘‘you have news from England; 
is the marquis coming home?’^ 

“ He will be back again in ten days,^^ was the reply. 

“ Then, my lady, it is high time we arranged for the lit- 
tle one. We ought to be back at least four days before the 
marquis returns, so that the novelty of our return may 
have worn off ; they will cease to speak of our journey or 
our going home by that time.^^ 

“ JPattie,^^ said my lady, softly, “ I do not think I can' 
give up my baby.^^ 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


103 


Certainly not; nor do I see that it will be necessary, 
said the maid. 

I have been thinking it over. I could not leave him. 
I was just thinking how 1 should begin my letter to my 
uncle. 

You have decided, then, to tell him?^^ asked Pattie, 
in some surprise. 

“ Yes; I must. I could not give up my beautiful little 
child / ^ she replied. 

That involves much; where and how shall you live, 
my lady, if you do thatr^^ 

She was on the very point of saying, I should go back 
to my husband, ^^’when she suddenly recollected herself, 
and with a hot flush on her face she answered: 

I slfhll have all that to think about, Pattie. 

The maid looked more thoughtful than the mistress. 
Suddenly she said: 

‘‘ My lady, I do not know; but it seems to me really a 
great pity after all; after all the trouble we have had, and 
the success that has attended all our plans, it seems to me 
really a sad pity to undo it all. 

Yes, I agree with you; but what can I do? I can not 
give up my baby. 

I think it could be very nicely arranged, my lady. I 
will take all the risks. We will leave the little one here for 
a time. I can come often to see it; you sometimes. Then 
when we are settled again in England, I can say that my 
sister is dead and has left me the little child to care for — 
do you see, my lady?^^ 

Yes, I understand, said Lady Laure. 

Then I shall ask your permission to come and bring 
the little one away to England. Surely, among my lord^s 
tenants, I can find one who will gladly — if well paid — 
undertake the care of a child. Then nothing would be 
more natural than that you, my lady, should be kind to an 
orphan child of whom I have charge; indeed, she con- 
tinued, it seems to me that you could do more for him 
that way than if you have to work to keep him. 

Lady Laurels face brightened beautifully. 

How clever you are, Pattie, she said. I should 
never have thought of such a thing; what a mind you 
have. If we can only do that, all will be well. Can it be 
managed, do you think 


104 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


‘"I am. quite sure that it can be managed, my lady. 
Nothing will please the mistress of the house better than 
to have the litfcle one with her. She will take good care of 
it; the place is healthy, and she is very kind. Of course it 
will be a trial for you to leave him; but when you have al- 
ready suffered so much to win the fortune, it seems to me 
really a pity to give it up. It will be hard to leave him, 
but try to think of the time when you will see him at 
Fernholme, a sturdy, beautiful little fellow, living in the 
fields and lanes. Try to think of the time when you will 
send him to school, and he will become a clever man. 
Ah, my lady, with so much to look forward to, never mind 
the little trouble of leaving him."^ 

‘‘ It is not a little trouble, Pattie, but a very great one,'' 
said my lady, sorrowfully. ^ 

But," said Pattie, if you have no money, and had to 
work for him, you would be compelled to leave him." 

‘‘ Yes, that is true. I feel inclined to trust all to you, 
Pattie. I am glad you spoke to me before I had begun the 
letter. If it has to be done, we had better do it at once, so 
as to be quite settled at home before the marquis arrives; 
but, Pattie, you must come to see him often." 

Trust me, my lady; I shall be quite as anxious as you 
about him. It will be so pleasant for you, my lady, when 
these few little troubles are passed; you will be able to see 
him every day; you may even make the marquis like him. 
Some time when you are out walking with him, and you 
meet the little darling, you can show him to the marquis 
and say, ‘ This is the litfcle orphan that Pattie has adopt- 
ed,' and when the marquis looks at his beautiful little face 
he will be quite sure to say, ‘ We must help her, we must 
do something for him.' He has the generosity of a prince, 
the marquis has. Then you can dress him prettily, send 
him toys, make him as happy as possible. It is a pleasant 
picture, my lady." 

“ Yes, very pleasant, Pattie; and if you can make it a 
reality, I will reward you." 

She went at once to speak to the mistress of the house, 
who was only too well pleased to keep the little one, and 
who was delighted with the terms offered her. Pattie re- 
turned with the good news to her mistress. 

We can go to-morrow, my lady," she said, if you 
like." 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


105 


But Lady La are looked at her, pleadingly. 

Let us stay until the day after, Pattie; you know he 
will never be quite so much niy own again. 

So it was arranged; and Pattie never forgot her lady^s 
last day with her child. It was one of the saddest sights 
that could have been seen, one of the most- pitiful; how 
she kissed it, caressed it, wept over it; the thousand in- 
junctions she laid upon its nurse who was to be; the re- 
wards she promised if it were well cared for; the piteous 
entreaties. Pattie Clarke .thanked Heaven when the day 
was ended. She could not have home such another. She 
never liked to remember the hour in which the mother 
parted from her child and turned away, with a white, set 
face, saying: 

I am ready now for anything. 

She never uttered one word while Pattie took oft the 
widow ^s garb and dressed her in a fitting costume. She 
never spoke during the journey to Paris; but when she 
stood once more in her magnificent chamber, she said to 
herself : 

The price — oh, my God, the price 

Every one was struck with the improvement in her ap- 
pearance. She received nothing but congratulations; there 
was great excitement over her return. She saw how wise 
Pattie had been in suggesting that they be settled at home 
before the marquis returned. When he -did arrive, finding 
them there, and everything going on just as usual, he did 
not seem to repiember even that his niece had been away 
from home. He was delighted with her appearance. 

How well you are looking, belle, \iQ said. ‘‘I 
have never seen you so charming. You are quite well, and 
very happy?^^ 

She assured him that she was both. He was delighted, 
have won my lawsuit, Laure,^Mie said. And 
now, if the plan quite pleases you, I should like to spend 
the next year in traveling. 

Whatever pleases you, uncle, she said, will please 
me. 

We will go through Germany and Switzerland on to 
Italy and Spain, said the marquis; ‘‘ then we shall return 
to England in the spring of next year; and you shall be in- 
troduced to the great world as Lady Laure de Bourdon, 
my niece and heiress. Does the prospect please you?^^ 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


lOG 


Yes/^ she answered him; though her heart turned 
with a sudden pang of pain to her child. 

She would not see him for another year — a whole year — 
then he would no longer be a baby. 

I shall have missed the sweetest part of his Hie/’ she 
said to herself, the very sweetest. 

Still there was no alternative. She sent Pattie to Com- 
bieres laden with everything that could possibly be re- 
quired during her yearns absence — money, clothes, presents 
— everything she could devise or imagine. 

When that was done she had to attend to the ordering of 
a new and complete traveling wardrobe for herself. Then 
the marquis, with his valet, and Lady Laure, with her 
maid, started on the tour that was to complete her edu- 
cation. 


CHAPTER XXIL 

THE BELLE OF SOCIETY. 

Two years had passed since the marquis and his beauti- 
ful niece started on a tour that was to complete her educa- 
tion and fit her for the world. That tour had been pro- 
longed from one year to two; Lady Laure had shown such 
quick, bright, keen intelligence, such a true taste for art, 
such wonderful artistic talent, that the marquis was quite 
determined to give her every advantage in his power. So 
that he lingered in all the large cities; he spared no ex- 
pense, no trouble, no fatigue; he engaged masters for her 
wherever he went, and he himself superintended her educa- 
tion. She educated herself, too, after a fashion; she read 
a great deal; she found herself most happy when her 
thoughts were most busily occupied. The more she 
studied and thought, the higher her education became, the 
more she was horrified at what she herself had done; as her 
thoughts and ideas became more refined, as her perceptions 
beanie more and more apute, the more clearly she saw the 
wrong she had done. It was too late now to undo it, with 
her cultivated tastes, her innate refinement, the way in 
which she had accustomed herself to every luxury, it was 
impossible now to go back to the old life — the life of pov- 
erty, of privation and obscurity. She never thought now 
of going back; her conscience had ceased to struggle; she 
had done wrong, she knew it, but there was no going back. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


107 


When she returned after that two years^ tour, she was a 
different creature.. Few would have recognized in her the 
country girl who had known no greater pleasure than the 
making of a cowslip ball. She had been a lovely girl, but 
she was now a magnificently beautiful woman. Her slen- 
der, graceful figure had developed into graceful symmetry; 
her face was beautiful, with a new and deeper beauty; the 
dainty bloom^ the exquisite coloring, the perfection of 
feature, were all rendered still more lovely by the awakened 
soul and intellect. The marquis was simply enchanted 
with his niece. There was no one like her, he declared. 
He was proud of her, ambitious for her; he loved her and 
delighted in her loveliness. 

She had almost succeeded in banishing all unpleasant 
thoughts from her mind; when the memory of Owen would 
obtrude she tried to be a philosopher. 

‘‘ Why should I think of what is disagreeable to me,^'’ 
she said, when no amount of thought can make any 
difference? The best thing I can do is to forget. 

So she resolutely put memory away from her, and 
trampled down all thought of the simple past. 

She never forgot the child. Pattie had been twice during 
the two years to see it, and each time hM brought away a 
most flourishing account of it. The iTftle one grew in 
beauty, strength and intelligence. 

She never forgot him. People who talked to her, won- 
dered why, at times, that sudden, wistful expression came in 
her eyes; why her beautiful face softened and grew tender. 
They little dreamed that at such times her heart had gone 
back to the little home under the vines, and the child who 
was there. Every day that passed made her happier over 
him; the time would soon come when Pattie could go for 
him, when she would be able to see him every day, to 
smother him with kisses and caresses, to give him clothes 
and toys — every day brought that happy time nearer. 

Now the month of April had set in, and the marquis had 
gone with his beautiful niece to London, and she was to 
make her dehut in the great world. His mansion had been 
refurnished with the greatest magnificence; everything had 
been prepared; jewels fit for a queen had been purchased; 
nothing was wanting to make her triumph complete. She 
was to be presented at the Drawing-room on the twenty- 
third of April, and in the evening of this important day her 


108 


A N-AMELESS 


uncle presented her with a superb parure of diamonds; the 
court dress had come home, and the Duchess St. Maur, 
who was to present her, pronounced it perfect. 

“ I am impatient for the morrow,""^ said the marquis; 

I long to hear the verdict of the great world on my beau- 
tiful niece. 

She bent her fair head and kissed him. 

I am indilferent to any other verdict, provided I have 
yours, she said; and he told her that she had that now. 

He did not say that to flatter her, but to encourage her; 
he did not remember to have seen a more beautiful girl. 

He was still more pleased when he saw her in her court 
dress; its splendor and magnificence suited her fair, queenly 
style of beauty. She was born to the purple; diamonds 
suited her. The marquis was charmed, but he felt, the least 
in the world, anxious, and felt that this ordeal, once over, 
all would be well. 

He had no need for fear. Lady Laure was pronounced 
by competent judges to be the most beautiful lady the 
court of St. Janies could boast. Every one was talking 
about her; the papers all had something’ to say of her 
beauty, her jewels, her superb costume; in fact her pres- 
entation was a complete success. She took the whole 
world of London by storm. She was different from the 
ordinary run of debutantes ; her beauty, her grace, her wit 
and bright intelligence, her quiet self-possession, her digni- 
fied calm, her brilliant repartee delighted every one. She 
was more like a queen of society than a girl j ust entering 
it. 

The marquis smiled when, the day after the Drawing- 
room, he saw the tables covered with notes, invitations of 
all kinds. 

‘‘ Look, Laure,^’ he said, these are all so many proofs 
of your success/^ 

She laughed — it was very pleasant to be so admired. A 
few days more and she was in truth the queen of the Lon- 
don season. 

The marquis was very proud, very exclusive; he did not 
allow her to accept every invitation that came. 

We must separate the chaff from the wheat, Laure,^’ 
he would say; “ no second-rate society for you. 

So that the beautiful heiress of Fernholme was only to 
be met with in the very best houses and most exclusive 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


lOD 


circles A few\iays more and she was fairly afloat in the 
best society in England— her triumph could not have been 
greater or her success more certain. As she went, super bly 
dressed, and surrounded by admirers, from opera to ball 
from soiree to soiree, she would ask herself was she the 
same Laure who had prepared Owen s breakfast and spent 
half the day in housework? As she walked among them 
imperially beautiful and imperially proud, she said to her- 
self, what would they say, if they knew that she had a hus- 
band and child? . , 

She had a legion of admirers— she was so gif ted, ^ beau- 
tiful, so charming, that no man could resist her. She was 
not a flirt, and though at times there was a dash perhaps of 

coquetry about her, it was at once so dignified and sweet, 

that it only made her the more irresistible. ^ 

The marquis would try, laughingly, to count her admir- 
ers; but as yet, he declared the right man was not among 
them. There was Sir Boyd Overton, a wealthy baronet; 
the young Viscount Maurice, the Marquis of Sanlmgton, 
Lord Abbot and a host of others. 

In her own mind. Lady Laure often compared them with 
Ovven — Owen, with his grand head, his strong figure, and 
simple, noble face. He could never be like those white- 
handed aristocrats; but the question that rose to her mind 
most frequently was, whether he were not worth a dozen of 
them— whether the simple grandeur of his character did 
not raise him far above them— whether his true heart was 
not worth all this polish of manner? Yet of what use was 
it, even thinking of such things? Owen was dead to her, 
and she to him. None of her admirers pleased hw a jot- 
one was too effeminate, another lacked intellect, ihe mar- 
quis smiled as fault after fault was discussed. 

‘‘ lie will have to be almost perfect, Laure, he said, 

the man who wins you."" . 

“ I do not think 1 shall be very easily won, uncle, was 


the laughing reply. • 1 1 • i* i. 

Very often, when he had been talking to her in this fash- 
ion Lady Laure would ask herself what she should do if an 
admirer came, whom the marquis wished her to aceept. 

She knew that she could never marry any one. She was 
Owen Eoden"s wife and she could belong to no other; what 
should she do if her uncle insisted on it? Wait until the 
time did come, and then trust to her own inspirations. 


110 


A NAMELESS SIK. 


Lord Abbot was the first to make her an offer, and she 
refused him at once. She told the marquis, who listened 
with a calm smile. 

He was not good enough for you, Laure,’^ he said; 
there is but one man in England to whom I should really 
like to give you."’’^ 

AVho is that, uncle she asked. 

“ My dear Laure,^’ he replied, “ the slight knowledge I 
have of your charming sex enables me to say at once that 
I must decline telling you; you would instantly take a dis- 
like to him. You do not know him, he has not been in 
London long, and we have not met him."^^ 

The next evening they went to a concert given by the 
Duchess St. Maur, and there, while Signora Bianca was 
singing one of the most beautiful airs. Lady Laure found 
herself more than once looking at a gentleman who stood 
at the other end of the room; she could not tell why he at- 
tracted her so much, unless it were that he, ever so slightly, 
resembled Owen. 

He had a tall, strong figure, with a broad chest and 
grand shoulders; there was something that pleased her in 
the proud carriage, the half haughty grace; the face was a 
good one, proud and distinguished, the eyes dark and clear, 
a broad, thoughtful brow, dark clustering hair — Lady 
Laure liked his appearance. 

Uncle/^ she asked, who is that gentleman speaking 
now to a lady in blue velvet — see.^^ 

She did not observe the quiet smile with which the mar- 
quis watched her animated face. 

He is a stranger,^ ^ was the evasive reply. 

But though he was a stranger, and though she had a 
circle of admirers round her, her eyes wandered to the tall 
figure and the proud, dark face. 

She repeated her question, and this time Sir Boyd Over- 
ton answered it. 

That is Lord IJlverston,^^ he replied. It is some- 
thing wonderful to see him at a concert; he does not care 
much for London society. 

And neither of them guessed that it was a desire to see for 
himself the beautiful Lady Laure, of whom every one was 
talking, that had brought him there. 


A KAMELESS SIN. 


Ill 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

THE STKATEGY OF THE MAEQUIS. 

Lord Ulverston, of Ulvers — the name struck her, just 
as the face and figure had done. She said to herself: 

If anything could have made Owen a gentleman, he 
would be like Lord Ulverston.-’^ 

Then she reproached herself for being so foolish as to 
think of Owen — Owen was dead to her. 

She thought a great deal about Lord Ulverston, but she 
spoke no word; and the marquis smiled more than once to 
himself as he saw how often her eyes wandered to him, but 
how little she said. Then she was somewhat piqued, too; 
once her eyes met Lord Ulverston^ s, and her face flushed 
crimson as she turned away. 

He will ask who I am, and then ask for an introduc- 
tion to me,'’^ she said to herself. 

But he did not — he did not look in her direction again, 
but after a time quitted the concert. The marquis smiled 
again as he saw that Lady Laurels eyes followed him even 
to the door. 

That will do,^^ he said to himself; nothing could be 
better. 

After that Lady Laure thought a great deal about Lord 
Ulverston, in a careless kind of fashion. She wondered 
every day if she should see him — whether he would ever 
ask for an introduction to her. She saw him once or twice 
in the park — she saw him once at the opera; but he never 
asked for an introduction, although she saw that they 
both knew the same friends. 

Once she was riding with her uncle in the Row, and they 
met him. Lord Ulverston bowed to her uncle, but did not 
look at her. 

‘^You know that gentleman, uncle?^^ she said, with 
some little surprise. 

“ I was introduced to him last evening,^ ^ was the brief 
reply. 

Do you like him, uncle — is he clever? He has a clever 
face. Do you care for him?^^ 

Yes,^^ said the marquis, slowly; I must say that I 


112 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


liked him; I found him very clever. He is popular among 
men, though not, perhaps, with ladies. 

AVhy not with ladies, uncle she asked, quickly. 

He is not what is called a lady^s man, Laure. He is 
one of the richest men in the peerage; he has two or three 
splendid estates; he has everything that a man can desire, 
but he has never shown any symptoms of wanting a wife, 
and the ladies are not quite pleased over it.'^'^ 

Perhaps he does not want a wife,^^ said Laure. 

No, he does not; that is why they are not pleased with 
him. He should want a wife; it seems selfish not to share 
his wealth and magnificence with some one.^^ 

He may surely please himself, said Lady Laure. 

The marquis continued: 

I do not think that is quite all; I am afraid Lord Ulver- 
ston is not quite as chivalrous as he might be. Eumor says 
that he infinitely prefers the society of gentlemen to that 
of ladies — that can not be right, Laure. 

He may surely please himself, uncle,^^ she replied. 

But all the same, she was just a little bit piqued; she 
thought to herself that if ever she was introduced to him, 
she would try to show him that some women in the world 
were well worth caring for; while the marquis congratulated 
himself on his diplomacy. 

From the whole world Lord Ulverston, of Ulvers, one of 
the proudest, wealthiest and noblest men in England, was 
the one he had selected for his niece. He said to himself 
that he had been very clever, he had conducted the affair 
on the most diplomatic principles. If I had said to her, 
Laure, I like Lord Ulverston, and I should be much 
pleased if he would fall in love with you, if I had said that 
— she is a true woman, my Laure — she would have taken 
a violent dislike to him and refused him. Now she is 
piqued; she will study to charm him, to please him, to 
captivate him, because she thinks he does not like women, 
in which opinion there is no doubt the marquis was right. 

A few days later he said to his niece: 

“ Laure, make a very pretty toilet this evening. I have 
some friends coming to dine, as you know. 1 have asked 
Lord Ulverston to join us.'^^ 

VYill he come?^^ she asked, quickly. 

I do not know, he half promised. Yes I think he will 
come. He improves on acquaintance, I think/^ 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


113 


She had nothing to do during the rest of the day but 
think of her dress. The marquis liked giving a state din- 
ner; it was a branch of hospitality in which he excelled. 
He kept one of the best cooks in England, and jiis dinners 
were of the most elegant kind. Those who received invita- 
tions considered themselves fortunate; it was seldom that 
one was refused. 

So at last she was to meet Lord Ulverston, the only man 
who had shown no anxiety to know her, who did not care 
to see her, and would most certainly not fall in love with 
her. She was very anxious to impress — she would take but 
little notice of him; he should see there was one woman 
who did not trouble herself about winning him; yet she 
would do her best to look most beautiful and ihake him 
admire her. 

Pattie found her lady difficult to please that day, white 
silk, white lace were tried, but in vain — they were too dead; 
of blue velvet she was tired. Pattie pleased her at last 
with a rich white brocade, on which small blue flowers were 
raised; a superb dinner dress cut so as to show the beauti- 
ful neck and white arms. In the gplden brown waves of 
hair she placed white flowers but wore no jewels, except a 
superb diamond necklace. Lady Laure had never looked 
more beautiful. 

When the marquis, quite delighted witji his own diplo- 
macy, brought Lord Ulverston to introduce him to his 
niece, he was quite charmed with her manner. Hot for 
one moment did her lustrous eyes rest on his face, not one 
word did she utter more than etiquette demanded; then 
with a most charming and graceful bow, she turned from 
him to the next new arrival. 

She evidently does not care for the honor of my ac- 
quaintance,^^ he said to himself; she never even looked at 
me. 

And that introduction struck him more than any other 
had done; women, as a rule, gave their kindest smiles and 
their brightest looks to the wealthy lord of Ulvers. 

It fell to Lord Ulverston^s lot to take Lady Laure in to 
dinner. As he sat by her, he was struck with wonder at her 
rare and delicate loveliness — the pure complexion, the 
dainty bloom. He wondered if the mind were as beautiful 
as the body and began to talk to her. Then, indeed, he 
was charmed with her wit, her intelligence, her animation 


114 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


— lie was delighted with her; and the next thing was, of 
coarse, that he fell in love with her. 

Looking at her beautiful eyes he lost himself, and never 
found himself again. He was not willing to own it, even 
to his owif heart. He had never cared much about the 
idea of marriage— he had never been in love; he had always 
prided himself on his strength of mind — he had wondered 
at men who choose to go mad for a womari^s fair face; he 
had wondered at men who were ready to fling their fortunes 
and their lives under the feet of some beautiful, heartless 
woman. He had said to himself, a hundred times over, 
that no woman should ever break his heart or ruin his life 
— that when he married, it should be from philosophical 
motives, not from the false, weak sentiment that people 
call love. 

He had been so brave, so proud, so cold; and now he had 
fallen more deeply, more entirely in love than one who had 
never barricaded himself with such resolutions. He was 
vexed over it— annoyed with himself; he would not at first 
believe in his bad fortune; he said to himself that he would 
cure himself of that nonsense, for he would not see her 
again; mhile she, on her side, was quite as proud and cold. 
It did not seem likely that they would ever agree; but the 
marquis was quite satisfied, he smiled more than once and 
owned to himself more than once that it was just what he 
expected. 

Lord Ulverston was firm, enough on that one point; he 
would not yield to such nonsense, and utter nonsense it 
was. He would keep away from Lady Laure, he would go 
so far as to own that she was dangerous; yet by some strange 
fatality it happened that he saw her every day, that he was 
always remembering something or other which made it nec- 
essary for him to call on the marquis; then it was so 
strange that after every conversation with Lady Laure he 
had something to send — some book or poem, or some piece of 
music that she had mentioned; he wondered at himself then, 
though he resolved not to go to the park, knowing that she 
would there be surrounded by hosts of admirers, still he felt 
himself impelled to go there, and did not know why. 

Inch by inch he fought the way with himself; no man 
ever surrendered so unwillingly, and even when, after some 
weeks of struggle, he owned to himself that he was com- 
pletely vanquished, he had not the least notion whether he 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


115 


should ever be able to induce Lady Laure to look favorably 
on him; he owned to himself that he could not live without 
her, that life would be such a blank spent without her, he 
had not courage enough to face it. He could not tell 
whether she liked him or not; she was always proud and 
cold to him, but that, he argued to himself, might be his- 
fault, because he was always reserved; but he had fancied 
once or twice that the beautiful face had softened to him, 
and that new music crept into the sweet voice when she 
spoke to him. He loved her all the better for her imperial 
pride and hauteur. He was so uncertain of what she felt, 
that he did not dare to mention his love to her; he thought 
hedwould consult the marquis first, and the marquis listened 
with a grave face as though he had not foreseen it all. 

‘‘ I am glad that you have spoken to me, my lord,^^ he 
said; “1 will give’ you the best advice in my power; say 
nothing to my niece at present, but if you will come down 
to Fernholme I shall be delighted to see you, and then you 
will see better what your chances are.^^ 

So it was settled that when the season ended. Lord IJlver- 
ston should, after a time, go down to Fernholme. Never 
a word of this did the marquis tell his beautiful niece, not 
one word; when the season did end he told her jestingly 
that she had broken more hearts than any one else in Lon- 
don, and she had received more offers of marriage than 
would be made to any other; at which Lady Laure looked 
very proud, and said that marriage was a subject that did 
not particularly interest her. 


CHAPTEE XXIV. 

TWO WOMEN OUTWIT ONE MAN. 

Fernholme had never looked more beautiful than in 
this leafy month of J une, when the marquis, with Lady 
Laure, returned home. 

The season was over, and all who had enjoyed its gay e ties 
were desirous of seeking rest and repose. The summer 
was beautiful, bright and warm; the flowers in full blos- 
som, the trees in full leaf, the birds sung as though no sum- 
mer had ever been so charming. The grand old Abbey of 
Fernholme was at its brightest and best; the green ivy that 
clung to the gray towers was luxuriant; the scarlet creep- 


116 


A NAMELESS SIK. 


ers, the woodbines^ the climbing roses made it a picture of 
beauty. 

Lady Laurels proud;, bright eyes rested on it witli a look 
of keenest satisfaction and pride; it would be hers some day, 
this grand, picturesque old pile of buildings, with all the 
wealth belonging to it. 

The season had been to her one long triumph; it had ex- 
ceeded even her wildest dreams; there seemed now no limit 
to her ambition. She was returning also, with her mind 
full of Lord Ulverston; not that she was in love with him; 
she would not for one moment admit that even to herself, 
but that he occupied her thoughts more than any one had 
done before. 

Then she had another great source of happiness; she in- 
tended as soon as she was quite settled at Lernholme to 
send for her boy. She was longing to see him, she thirsted 
for a look at his face and the sound of his voice. With 
her devoted and faithful maid, Pattie, she had arranged 
everything even to the words that were to be spoken. 

The marquis had decided with his niece that they would 
have one week of perfect rest, before inviting any visitors, 
then she would be able to recruit herself, to make up for 
the late hours and the loss of sleep. Nothing could have 
suited Lady Laure better. 

It will seem just like old times, uncle, to be here alone 
and together,^ ^ she had said. 

Then, after three da3^s had passed, she decided that it 
was quite time. She began her plans for bringing home 
her little son. One morning the marquis was unusually 
late at breakfast, and she, quite against her rule, waited 
for him. He was pleased by the little act of attention. 
They talked and she amused him greatly by little anecdotes 
of her partners and all she had seen or heard in town. 
While she was talking to him busily, her maid, Pattie, en- 
tered the room, with an open letter in her hand and signs 
of great agitation on her face. She drew back with a deep 
courtesy when she saw the marquis. 

beg your pardon, my lady,^^ she said, thought 
you were alone. Then she added: Could you, my lady, 
be good enough to spare me five minutes? I am sorry to 
trouble you, but I have had bad news.^^ 

Lady Laure rose from her seat. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 117 

‘‘Go to my room, Pattie/^ she said; and when she had 
gone, she turned to her uncle: 

“ I hope there is nothing wrong — anything much the 
matter,'’^ she said. “ I should be quite lost without 
Pattie.^^ 

“ She is a valuable servant, said the marquis. “ If it 
should be any kind of money trouble, either for herself or 
her friends, remember my purse is yours, Laure.’^ 

She thanked him, and quitted the room. She was ab- 
sent for perhaps half an hour, then returned with a grave 
face. 

“ I am in trouble now, uncle,^^ she said, bending down 
to kiss him; “ I am afraid Pattie will have to leave me.^^ 

“ I hope not,'^'^ said the marquis. 

“So do 1 /’ re-echoed his beautiful niece, with a sigh. 
“ I should be greatly distressed; she understands my style, 
and she has such exquisite taste. You are pleased when I 
look well dressed; but if Pattie goes, I shall never be well 
dressed again. 

“ Then she must stay, Laure, decidedly. What is the 
matter with her? Why does she want to gor^^ 

“ It is a long, sad story; she had a sister who married 
young, and whose husband died when we were abroad a 
year ago; now the sister herself is dead and has left a little 
boy about two years old. Pattie must go to him. She 
will have to adopt the child, I suppose, and bring it up as 
her own. Her sister asked her to do so.^^ 

“ That is awkward, said the marquis; “but, Laure, I 
do not see there is any necessity of Pattie ^s leaving you. 

She saw that if she managed well, he would be the first 
to suggest that the child should be brought there. 

“ l)o you not, uncle? Well, if you can be clever enough 
to suggest a plan by which I can keep my useful maid, I 
shall be very glad indeed. 

“ How old do you say the child is, Laure?^^ 

She looked thoughtfully at him. He little dreamed how 
her heart was beating, and how the words seemed to burn 
her lips as they left them. 

“ Two years old, I believe. 

“ Then there is really no need whatever for Pattie leav- 
ing 3 ^ou. She can go and bring the child W’ith her.^^ 

She was compelled to wait a few minutes; her heart beat 


118 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


SO quickly that she could not speak. Then she looked at 
her uncle calmly. 

‘MYe could not do with a child here/^ she said. 

ISTo, not here — not at Fernholme; hut surely, among 
the farmers^ wives Pat tie can find one who would take the 
boy and bring him up, if she were well paid for it. You 
can increase the girPs wages so as to enable her to do so. 
Eing for Pattie. 1 will propose the plan to her myself. 

Lady Laure rang, and sent for Pattie, to whom the mar- 
quis propounded his kindly scheme. The maid seemed de- 
lighted, and thanked him over and over again. He did 
not notice how pale his niece had grown; her heart and 
conscience alike reproached her. When the maid had 
gone, she threw her white hands around his neck. 

How good you are to nie,^^ she said. How kind; 
you do anything to please me. 

Certainly. I love you — will do anything for you, 
Laure. 

And as her beautiful head rested for one minute on that 
kindly heart, she thought to herself she would give her life 
never to have deceived him. 

So it was all arranged. Pattie went into deep mourn- 
ing, and all the household heard that her sister was dead. 
In three days from then Pattie started to fetch the child. 
He was to remain with her for a day or two at Fernholme, 
until a home was found for him. The housekeeper, Mrs. 
Pel ton, who was very much interested in the matter, vol- 
unteered to go to King^s Wynne and seek from among the 
tenants there one who would be best suited to take the 
care of the child. My lady did not appear in the matter 
at all. Pattie was absent four days, and each day Lady 
Laure contrived to appear not so nicely dressed as usual. 
Even the marquis noticed it. She laughed when he spoke 
of it, and said Pattie would soon return. 

She had something to bear. Ho one knew with what 
agony of longing she was waiting for that return. She 
trembled at the thought of seeing her child; yet she longed 
to see him with an intensity no words could tell. She re- 
membered the tiny beautiful baby face. What would it be 
like now? 

She was just sitting down to dinner when the footman 
brought word that Mrs. Clark — as the servants called 
Pattie — had arrived. She dare not ask the question that 


A XAMELESS SIN". 


119 


trembled on her white lips. The man added that Mrs. 
Clark had brought the little boy with her. Her first wild 
impulse was to run to him, to catch him in her arms, to 
smother him with kisses; but she was compelled to control 
herself. Her own child was safe there under her roof, yet 
it might be hours before she saw him. The marquis won- 
dered at the high spirits and animation of his niece. 

‘‘ She has life enough and nerve enough for twenty wom- 
en, he said. No wonder that she is so popular. 

And that night she made herself more charming than 
ever. She sung to him, talked to him, until he was de- 
lighted with her. 

Pattie has returned, uncle, she said, when she had 
bade him good-night, ‘‘but I have nob seen her yet. I 
will have a toilet that will delight you to-morrow. 

She could hardly control herself until she reached Pattie^s 
room — her own little child, the lovely, rosy baby she had 
left in such anguish and such tears, she was to see him 
again. 

She opened the door of Pattie^s room and the faithful 
maid was there to welcome her. Lady Laure looked at 
her; she could not speak. 

“ Yes, my lady,^'’ she said, “he is here, safe and well, 
and beautiful. You must not cry out when you see liirn.^^ 

Then she went a step further and saw him lying fast 
asleep on Pattie^s bed, the golden brown curls lying on the 
white pillow, the lovely little face rosy with slumber, the 
pink hands clasping a little wooden soldier. 

She was heartless, vain, proud, and cold; but when she 
saw the little one she fell on her knees by his side, sobbing 
and praying that Heaven would be merciful to her, for 
she was a wretched sinner. 

She covered the pink hands and the beautiful dimbs with 
kisses. She kissed the face, the sweet open lips, the brown 
curls. 

My darling, my hearths darling,^^ she cried. 

“ You should see him with his eyes open, my lady,^^ said 
Pattie. “ He is beautiful as the morning. But, oh, my 
lady, what do you think?^'’ 

“ What, Pattie asked Lady Laure. 

There was a smile on Pattie^s face and a tear in her eye, 
as she answered : 


120 


A IsAMELESS 


My lady, the child speaks French~jast the few little 
words he says are all French. 

Mistress and maid looked at each other in comic dismay. 
“He will soon forget it,^^ said Lady Laure. “ Pattie, 
could you not carry him to my room to-night, that I may 
have him to myself for a few hours?^^ 

“ If you think it safe, my lady, I will do it.^^ 

“ Of course it is safe. Why should it not be quite safe? 
I must have him, Pattie; I must hold him in my arms quite 
close. I must. Do you remember how long it is since I 
have seen him — and he is my own, own child. I must 
have hi m.^^ 

Pattie was only too pleased to indulge her. When the 
house was all quiet the child was carried to his mother ^s 
room. Her delight and ecstasy over him brought the 
tears to Pattie/ s eyes. 

There was never anything half so beautiful on earth as 
this, her own child. 

Her delight was increased when he opened his eyes and 
looked at her; but then the eyes were like hers, and the 
face was just like Owen^s. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A MOMENTOUS QUESTION. 

“ I SHOULD like to see your little protege, Pattie,^^ said 
the marquis, kindly. 

He was standing on the lawn on a bright June morning. 
Lady Laure was with him. She had been feeding a beau- 
tiful peacock, whose superb feathers were spread in the 
morning sun. Pattie had come with some message to her 
mistress. 

“I should like to see him,^^ repeated the marquis, and 
Pattie went at once to find the child. 

She brought him back, looking beautiful as the morning 
itself, his glossy curls brushed out, his rosy face glowing, 
his little black frock showing his beautiful limbs. Pattie 
led him up to the marquis, while Lady Laure, white even 
to the lips, stood watching the scene. 

“ He is a lovely child,^^ said the marquis. “ Shake 
hands, little one.^^ 

He took the pink, plump hand in his own; then, won by 


A ]SrAMELESS SIN-. 


121 


the chi Id smile, bent down and kissed the little face, while 
Lady Laure said to herself wonders would never cease. If 
he knew whose child he was caressing. 

‘‘It is years since I spoke to a child of this age,^^ said 
the marquis; then he started in amazement; the child said 
something, and he cried out: 

“ Why, Pattie, the boy speaks French. 

For one moment it seemed to Lady Laure that the earth 
and the sky met. Then she heard Pattie say, quite 
calmly: 

“ Oh, yes, my lord; his father was a Frenchman; he will 
soon learn to speak English, though.-^’ 

“ His eyes remind me of some one, I can not tell whom,^^ 
said the marquis. “ Laure, have you seen this little one?^^ 

She did not turn away from the beautiful, proud bird 
she was feeding; the fact was she did not dare to trust her- 
self near the boy in the marquises presence. 

“ Yes, I have seen him,^^ she replied, quietly. 

The marquis was just a little disappointed that she did 
not show a little more enthusiasm for the pretty babe. He 
was kinder than usual to atone for it. He placed a golden 
sovereign in each pink palm; he patted the curly head, and 
kissed the pretty face. 

“ You must bring him to see me from time to time, 
Pattie, he said. “ I shall be interested in seeing how he 
gets on."^^ 

Then, when the maid had taken the child away, he said 
to Laure: 

“ Do you dislike children, Laure 

He asked the question in a grave tone of voice, as though 
he were half displeased. 

“ Iso,^^ she answered, trying to speak carelessly, “I 
like them well enough. 

He watched her for a few minutes in silence, wondering 
if one so beautiful could really be, as he had at times 
thought her, cold of heart. Then he said to himself, !Mo, 
it was only her manner. Her heart was warm enough and 
in the right place. 

“ That is such a fine child, he said. “ I should like 
you to take a little notice of him; it would please Pattie, I 
am sure. 

He would have thought her mad a few hours later on, 
had he seen her kissing the boy and talking to him. The 


122 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


housekeeper had found him a delightful home, at a pretty, 
quaint, old-fashioned farm-house between Fernholme and 
Ladywell. It was kept by a widow, a comely, gentle, 
kindly woman, who desired nothing better than the con- 
tinual presence of a child. The farm was called The 
Hollies,^'' and Mrs. Kean, who managed it, had no children 
of her own. Pattie was more than satisfied when she took 
the child. 

He will be as happy, my lady, as a king,^^ she said. 

And so he was, although he wept sorely at parting from 
the beautiful lady who loved him so passionately. The little 
boy was soon quite at' home. No one ever heard my lady 
speak of him; she never even looked at him in any other 
personas presence, but she atoned for it when they were 
alone. She continued to see him almost every day, either 
when she went out for her drive or when he was brought to 
the Abbey by Pattie. 

The sultry month of July came round, and one morning 
the marquis received a letter that made him look anxiously 
at his niece; it was from Lord Ulverston, sa5dng that he 
was tired of his suspense and waiting, and with the permis- 
sion of the marquis he would at once go to Fernholme. 

Whatever be my fate, ^Mie wrote, ^"it will be more 
easy to bear than this suspense. 

W^hat would Lady Laure say? The marquis could form 
no idea; he looked at her anxiously; she had never been 
so beautiful, and it seemed to him that her face had grown 
tender and more softened. At last he spoke. 

‘‘ Laure, he said, Lord Ulverston is coming to see 
us.^^ 

Her face grew crimson. 

She does care for him,^^ thought my lord; ‘‘ but she 
is too proud to show it. I shall stand aside, and let them 
make their own terms. I will not interfere. 

Lady Laure thought a great deal of what he had said. 
Lord Ulverston coming? Was it, could it really be, because 
he cared for her? The Abbey was filled with guests, the 
marquis had been very liberal with his invitations. From 
morning until night there were continual scenes of gayety; 
there were picnics to the woods, boating on the Eiver Eea, 
garden parties, every variety of summer entertainments, 
and Lady Laure was queen of all. The whole country-side 
were at one time or another invited to Fernholme, and 


A NAIIELESS SIl^. 123 

everybody there acknowledged Lady Laure as the most 
beautiful and fascinating of women. 

The moment she saw Lord Ulverston, before she spoke 
to him, she knew by instinct why he had come. The dark, 
hauglity face was full of passion, the dauntless eyes seemed 
to say to her: 

‘"I have fought against you and against myself; I am 
vanquished and I mean to win you.^^ 

Whenever they looked at her or followed her, those eyes 
said that, and Lady Laure knew their language by heart, 
and learned to droop her own before them. More than one 
beautiful woman among the guests would have been pleased 
to attract the notice of Lord Ulverston. He was decidedly 
the best match in England. They were well content to 
sing to him, to dance with him, to wander with him in the 
gloaming, to listen to his compliments; they were willing 
to praise and to flatter him, to share his views and opinions, 
but he won none of these concessions from his lady-love; 
she stood quite aloof. W^hen he spoke, she answered him 
briefly; if he asked her to sing, she was always engaged; if 
he asked her to dance, she was tired; if he asked her to 
ride or to drive, she always had some other engagement; 
yet he did not despair. 

If she looked at me when she gave such replies, I 
should be frightened, he thought; “ but she does not; 
her eyes droop from mine, and she cares for me, I am 
sure. My beautiful queen. There is no one like her.^^ 

He waited whole days, and could never And the oppor- 
tunity that he sought; she seemed always to evade or avoid 
him. At length, one morning, going quite by accident 
into the conservatory, he found her there. It was one of 
Lady Laure’s peculiarities that she never cared for flowers. 
Perhaps they reminded her too forcibly of that she wanted 
to forget. She had gone there to read in luxurious peace 
the third volume of a book that greatly interested her. 
Most of their visitors had gone out either riding or driving, 
but she had preferred her book and the quiet, cool conser- 
vatory. 

She did not hear Lord Ulverston enter, nor did she 
know that he was there until he uttered her name. 

Lady Laure, he said, I can hardly believe in my 
good fortune to find you here and alone. She gave him 
oiie quick, keen glance, then she knew that he would say 


124 : 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


what he had come to say, and that nothing she could do 
would prevent him. Her eyes drooped, and the long silken 
lashes fell on her face; she folded her white hands and laid 
them on her book. I have come to Fernholme,^'' he 
said, ‘‘ with the one intention of asking you to be my wife; 
but you have been so cold and so reserved that any other 
man would have been daunted. Will you listen to me. 
Lady Laure?^^ 

It would not be polite to say no,^^ she replied, with the 
least trace of a smile. 

‘‘I do not care about politeness,^^ he said; but I 
fancy that you are willing for me to speak. 

He looked so strong, so tall, so handsome, that any wom- 
an must have been flattered by his love. He stood by her 
side, his dark, proud face softened into unutterable ten- 
derness. 

I loved you. Lady Laure,^'^ he said, the first moment 
I saw you. You are the only woman I ever loved, or ever 
shall love. Will you be my wife?'’^ 

She listened calmly. The thing that struck her most in 
his wooing was how it resembled Owen^s. Owen had just 
that fashion of standing erect by her side, and of saying 
the most loving words to her. Lord TJlverston little knew 
that he owed his patient hearing to his likeness to another. 

‘‘ Will you be my wife. Lady Laure?^^ he repeated. I 
might woo you in more tutored language. I might quote 
poetry, after the fashion of men who make love to all the 
pretty women they meet; but I have never made love be- 
fore; it is all new to me, and 1 am perhaps awkward at 
it.^" 

She could not repress a smile. She had had love made 
to her in all kinds of ways. This seemed stranger than 
ever. 

Will you be my wife. Lady Laure?^^ he asked again. 

Then she looked up at him. 

I can not give you any answer. Lord TJlverston,^ ^ she 
said. ‘‘ I have not made up my mind as to whether I shall 
ever marry or not. 

He bent his head. 

‘‘ Will you try to love me. Lady Laure?^^ he asked, 
gently. 

Her face softened. 

I will think of it,^^ she replied. 


A KAMELESS SIET. 


125 


Ah^ believe me, you should never repent it — never. I 
love you so dearly, all my life and my heart has gone into 
my great love for you. I will make you the happiest wom- 
an in the wide world. 

She thought to herself that that would never be possi- 
ble; she might be anything else, but happy — never. 

He continued: 

‘‘Will you think about it. Lady Laure? I love you so 
well, so dearly, words seem to me foolish and weak when I 
try to make them express my passionate love.^"^ 

“I will thiuk of it,^^ she said, and, even as he stood 
there talking to her, she was thinking of Owen^s love and 
Owen^s words: 

“ I would follow you, and die like a dog — humbly at 
your feet. 


CHAPTEK XXVI. 

A BKIDE EOR THE SECOHD TIlVtE. 

The marquis, going one fine morning into his library, 
was surprised to find his niece sitting there waiting for 
him. 

She rose as he entered, and in answer to his laughing 
remark, said: 

“ It is so impossible of finding an opportunity of speak- 
ing to you, uncle, while we have so many visitors, that 1 
have determined to make my opportunity.^^ 

He told her that he was always pleased to see her. He 
had one or two very important letters to write for this post, 
and then they could talk. 

“ You look very thoughtful, Laure, he said, suddenly 
raising his eyes from his paper. 

“ I have something to think of, uncle,^^ was the quiet 
reply. 

Then, when his letters were finished, he went over to 
her, and sitting down by her side, said: 

“ Xow, my Laure, tell me why you are thoughtful, why 
you have sought me, and what you wish to speak about 

“ Very comprehensive,^^ said Laure, with a smile. “ I 
can soon do it, uncle. I am thinking seriously about the 
one thing in this world which is supposed to interest wom- 
en most — marriage. I want to know if you really wish me 
to be married — if you really desire it,'’^ 


126 


A ^TAMELESS SIX. 


Yes/^ said the marquis, I do wish it. 

But, uncle, why? I am so happy here with you. I 
could not be happier. If I marry 1 must go to some 
strange home and leave you, which I should not like half 
so well as this. I shall never love any husband half so well 
as I love you.^^ 

He laughed and caressed the white hand he held. 

Why need it be, uncle? Let me be always with you.^^ 
He looked at her. 

Do you not want to marry, Laure?^^ he asked. 

‘‘ 'No/’ she answered, I do not. I should very much 
prefer to remain single. I do not want to be married. Let 
me remain always with you.^^ 

My dearest Laure, I should like it well enough; but it 
can not be — it must not be. You are literally the last of 
the De Bourdons; you can not in this matter please your- 
self; you are compelled to marry; the nobility of our name 
imposes this obligation on you. 

You really mean it, uncle,^^ she said, gravely. 

Certainly I do, Laure; it is part, and the most neces- 
sary part, of my scheme. Most assuredly I mean it.^^ 

“ Then there is nothing for it, but for me to obey,'’^ she 
said. ‘‘I must marry if you really desire it. I may as 
well tell you, uncle, that I have had an offer of marriage. 

You have had a great many, Laure,’ ^ he said, laugh- 
ingly. 

“ But this one I have had lately — two days ago. I did 
not answer it. I would say, No/’ if you were willing 
for m,e to remain here always with you. I gave no answer, 
but waited until I had spoken to you. It was Lord U1 ver- 
st on who asked me to be his wife.” 

‘‘ Do you love him, Laure?” asked her uncle. 

As well he as another,” she replied. If you say it is 
my duty to marry, and you wish it, I think he is the most 
eligible of all my admirers. ” 

‘‘You speak coolly, Laure.” 

“ I feel coolly. I want to live always with you; I do 
not care about marriage, but if you wish it — ” 

“ I do wish it, and if Lord Ulverston has made you an 
offer, I say frankly that you could not do better than ac- 
cept it. Such a marriage will please me very much.” 

“ Then I must say ‘ Yes;’ you would like me to say 
yes?” 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


127 


Certainly I should. But, Laure, I can not under- 
stand you. Bo you know that Lord Ulverston is one of 
the most sought-after men in England? There is not a 
duchess who would not gladly give him her loveliest daugh- 
ter. He could marry the greatest heiress in England — and 
yet you treat him so coolly. 

“It is a change for him after so much flattery, uncle/^ 
she said. 

“Ah, well, there is something most certainly in that; 
but you yourself, Laure — you puzzle me. Why are you so 
much unlike other girls — so cold of heart, so quietly 
proud? Lord Ulverston is handsome enough to win the 
heart of any girl; he has a most charming manner. I 
know no one whom I admire so much. He loves you, and 
that in itself is the greatest compliment he can pay you; 
yet you receive his love so coldly; it does not seem to please 
you. I should hardly have thought there was a woman liv- 
ing who would not have loved him for his own sake. Why 
are you so dilferent from other women, Laure?'^ 

“ Why?^^ She repeated the word with quivering lips; 
“ why?^^ and the memory of the strong, loving young hus- 
band she had forsaken came over her with a sharp pang. 
“ I can not tell why, uncle — every one has peculiarities, I 
have mine. So, then, I may take it now as your decided 
wish that I should marry Lord Ulverston. 

The marquis looked anxiously and wonderingly in that 
beautiful face. 

“If you can be happy with him; but if there is any 
one whom you love better, I would neither force nor per- 
suade you, Laure. You shall please yourself. 

“ There is no one whom 1 prefer, uncle, she said, 
slowly. 

“ Then we will consider it settled, he said. “ Try to 
love him, Laure. After all, wealth and position are a 
great deal, but it requires a little love to brighten one^s 
life. Try to love him a little, my dear.^^ 

She bent her beautiful head until it touched his shoulder, 
and there rested for two or three minutes, while the mar- 
quis wondered to himself how it was that she, so young, so 
beautiful, should be cold in manner and hard of heart. 
After a few minutes she stood up. 

“ I thank you, uncle, she said, “ for your patience in 


128 


A KA]\tELESS SIK. 


listening to me. I have my answer ready now. I am to 
sayyes."'^ 

“ Say it kindly, Laure,^^ he pleaded. 

I will — I will, indeed. I never mean to be anything 
except kind. I am unfortunate if I have a cold manner. 

As he looked at her, the marquis thought that perhaps 
the very calmness of her manner, so imperial in its grace, 
had been the charm that won him. 

So now again her destiny lay in her own hands; she had 
tried to evade the decision by referring it to her uncle. She 
knew that the wrong she had done already was deadly 
enough; but that if she doubled it by marrying, her crime 
would be terrible. 

Then she reasoned with herself falsely enough; she said 
that her old self was dead, the self that married Owen was 
dead; indeed there had never been such a person, her 
whole identity was changed; Owen Eoden had married 
Laure Knowles, as he believed the daughter of a poor 
woman, an untaught, obspure, penniless girl; he would 
never have thought of marrying Lady Laure de Bourdon. 
So, the old self being dead, she was at liberty to please 
herself; so she argued with herself, so she tried to reason 
and to argue with herself; but though she tried hard to 
reason with herself, to argue with herself, to convince her- 
self, yet it was all a dead failure; she knew that she was on 
the brink of a terrible crime — a crime before God and man, 
one that was punished severely by the law. 

She knew it, she made no false excuses. After a time, 
the hideous reality of her sin became clearer to her every 
day; she would not think of it, the old self was dead. She 
declared her new self should do as she would. She feit 
quite secure, no one would ever discover her secret, it was 
safe as possible; she would be more safe still if she were 
married; once Lady Ulverston,.of TJlvers, and she should 
never know the sensation of fear again. 

So when, after some days. Lord Ulverston mentioned 
the subject to her again, she was ready with her answer, 
and greatly to his joy, not a little to his surprise, that an- 
swer was, ‘‘Yes.'"^ ‘‘Yes,^^ given with calm lips, that 

did not tremble over the word, with a face that neither 
flushed, nor changed, nor paled. 

“Lady Laure,^^ he said, after a pause, “ do you love 
me? You are very good, you have promised to marry me. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


129 


blit I am wondering if you love me. It is your love I 
want/"^ 

The handsome face and pleading voice touched her heart; 
he loved her so deeply and so well, this man who asked her 
to be his wife. She looked up at him suddenly. 

I will try to love you/^ she said. I will try to make 
you happy and as she said the words, there came to her 
an idea how she could yet make her life good and beautiful. 
She would marry him, she would be a good wife; she would 
so faithfully discharge the duties of her high position, that 
she should in that way atone for the wrong she had done. 

An idea that even in its falseness gave her some pleasure. 
She liked to dwell upon it; she liked to think how much 
good it would be in her power to do- — how many she could 
relieve and assist; how well she might educate her boy. 
There would be no limit to her power of doing-good. 

Lord Ulverston saw the sudden light that came to her 
face, and fondly believed that it was love for him brought 
it there. Then his only misgiving died away; he had al- 
most feared that she was too proud and too cold to love; 
but now, with that light on her face, with that smile on 
her lips, he could doubt no more. She loved him, and 
they would be happy. 

The news of the engagement gave great satisfaction; 
every one. thought it a most suitable marriage, and the 
marquis openly professed himself delighted ; he said, more 
than once, that if he had to choose from the whole world. 
Lord Ulverston was the man he should have chosen. 

The marriage was to take place in the spring of the year 
following. Lord Ulverston said, with a sigh of resigna- 
tion, he knew it was quite useless to ask for it before then. 
The settlement and the wedding trousseau must take some 
long time. One can not be married without some proper 
formalities. 

During those long months of waiting Lady Laure learned 
to love him; his noble character, his loyal, true disposi- 
tion, his intellect and high principles won her highest es- 
teem, and then followed her love; but it was a very differ- 
ent love from that which she had given Owen Roden. 
This was an affection of slow growth, founded solely on 
esteem and respect, an affection that nothing could change 
or make less. 

Then when the time of waiting was over, and the wed- 

5 


130 


A KAMELESS Sliq-. 


ding-day came, all England read of the wonders and fes- 
tivities that followed. Bride and bridegroom went to the 
beautiful old Castle of Ulvers, where Lady Ulver was soon 
beloved and revered. Pattie went with her, and a home 
was found for Pattie^s adopted child at one of the lodge- 
gates, and there for some years the Lady of Ulvers had a 
bright, beautiful, happy life. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

OWEK^S BOOK. 

OwEK RoDEiq^ had no suspicion of the blow that was to 
fall on him; that his beautiful young wife had thoughts in 
which he did not share, or interests apart from his, or 
a longing for anything more than simple life and simple 
happiness, never occurred to him. He had worked very 
hard to make that little home pretty for her; he had res- 
cued her from poverty and hard toil; he was working with 
all his strength to make a better position for her, and it 
never occurred to him to think that she was anything but 
content and happy. 

She was so young — almost a child — and she loved him 
very much; she was very lovely and gentle. He amused 
himself at times by thinking what a magnificent woman 
she would make in the years to come. She had not fin- 
ished growing yet; she might be several inches taller even, 
and he laughed heartily at the idea; then he should have a 
beautiful home for her, for simple, honest, noble Owen had 
his ambitions. 

He was born to be a great botanist. Had he been the 
child of wealthy parents, had he received a good education, 
the chances are that his name would be enrolled with those 
of great scholars; as it was, he had to fight his way through 
mists of ignorance; he found great stumbling-blocks that it 
was hard to get over; yet his courage and his perseverance 
were so great; he wrote of wonderful things that he had seen 
and heard about flowers, and their habits, their tempers, 
and ways, but that which he wrote was often misspelled, 
and required to be put into proper shape. 

Every one has a talent of some kind, if he will but use 
it; Owen had more than that, he had genius, but it was 
all for flowers, plants, trees; he seemed to live in a world 


A KAMELESS SIN. 


131 


full of them, a world which held nothing else. To the mar- 
vels of architecture, of painting, of sculpture, he was quite 
blind; he understood nothing of science, less of literature, 
but there was nothing in the lives of flowers that puzzled 
him; he knew their names, their homes, the life they liked; 
he knew all about them, he was quite king of their king- 
dom. As a child, he had loved and studied them; as a man 
he did the same. He could not draw a straight line if 
left to himself, but he could always sketch quite correctly 
a leaf or a flower. 

So day by day he had patiently plodded on; he had 
written his chapters on the habits of flowers, on the forma- 
tion of leaves, on the growth of trees; and one day when a 
great botanist came to Aylmer Hall, Lord Cardin brought 
him to see Owen Eoden^s collection of wild flowers, and 
from their conversation the great botanist desired to see 
those written chapters. When he had done so, the great 
man declared that Owen had written a wonderful book. 
Owen smiled with the simplicity that belongs to all great 
genius. 

I am afraid the grammar and spelling are very bad, 
sir,^^ he said. 

I will make all that right,^^ said the man of science; 
‘‘ trust it to me, I will correct it, and you will find that 
you have written one of the most wonderful books of the 
day. Go on with your studies, and I prophesy a bright 
career for you. 

Lord and Lady Cardin had both been very much struck 
with those words: Lord Cardin, because he had a simple, 
honest liking for the man; Lady Cardin, because it grati- 
fied her pride that they should have a genius in their ser- 
vice, because it would please her in after years to hear peo- 
jile speak of Lord Cardin^s head-gardener. 

So Owen worked until the love came that seemed to 
change his whole life, until he saw the lovely young face of 
Laure, the flower of flowers, and from that moment she 
became the first object in life with him. Different men 
have different loves: he was one quite by himself. The 
very simplicity and purity of his life, the poetry of it, made 
it different from any other; it had not been tainted by evil 
companions, or shadowed by sin, or passed in the evil con- 
tact of great cities. It had been spent under the blue sky, 
in the grand, free air, always studying flowers, nothing but 


132 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


flowers. There were whole days when he heard no sound 
except the song of birds and the music of the wind; it made 
him a poet even without his own knowledge, and that 
poetry was the life of his love. A timid love at first, with- 
out any hope in it. He could never think for one moment 
that Laure would care for him, but he delighted in wor- 
shiping her. He found out after a time how poor and 
helpless they were, this mother and daughter. Then the 
true nobility of his nature showed itself. He contrived to 
help them in a hundred ways, but it was all so cleverly 
done that it seemed to them that they were conferring 
favors, and he receiving them. How he worshiped the 
lovely light-haired girl, worshiped her from afar olf ; to sit 
and look at her was delight enough for him. If sh^ spoke 
to him, the honest, handsome face fiushed burning red. 
If in passing him her dress touched him, or her hand rested 
for half a moment in his, the great strong frame trembled. 
How he loved her. It is pitiful to see the love of a man 
given so lavishly to a woman. 

Even after they were married he could hardly believe 
his own good fortune. That she cared for him, loved him, 
was willing to bear his name, share his home, his love, his 
life, was most wonderful to him; to say that he worshiped 
her, had for her the purest, the most passionate, the deep- 
est love that filled a man’s heart, is little enough; he 
lived for her, for her he worked, studied, hoped, and 
planned; for the first time he was anxious to make a name, 
to make riches; he would look at her and wonder that he 
had won so great a treasure, wonder that his life was glad- 
dened and brightened by one so beautiful and gifted. 

He worshiped her so entirely himself, that it never en- 
tered his mind to think p(M*haps she loved him less. He 
had never been jealous of her; they knew no one, they had 
few acquaintances, no friends, no relations; there was no 
possibility. of comparing himself with others, for he never 
saw any one. He had implicit faith in her; he could have 
sooner imagined one of the angels of Heaven betraying 
him, one of the stars of heaven falling, than Laure going 
wrong; he had never once associated Laure with wrong in 
his own mind, he could not imagine her anything but 
perfect. 

For a few months they were very happy, until the great 
temptation of her life came to her. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


133 


Then he began to notice a little change in her; it was 
not much, but that she had grown so thoughtful. Up to 
this time she had always been so quick, so anxious; he had 
always found his home so well attended to, his own wants 
so well provided for; now, day after day, he went home, 
and Laure had forgotten his dinner, forgotten his tea; he 
would find her buried in thought, starting at sight of him. 
She had always been so proud of him, so light of heart, 
and so gay; she had gone about the little house, singing 
with a clear, sweet voice, and now she was silent; she had 
enjoyed talking to him about their future, about the great 
book, which was to be called Flower Life,'’^ and which 
she hoped so earnestly would bring him fame and money; 
now she never spoke of the' future, and when he did so she 
had a fasliion of clasi^iug her white arms round his neck 
and hiding her face on his breast. Still he was not the 
least anxious over her; he had never, even ever so faintly, 
suspected her of wrong, nothing could have ever induced 
him to do that; but he was puzzled. He thought about 
her very much one evening when he was in the woods; for 
the first time that day he felt uncomfortable about her; 
she looked so languid, so listless, so far from her bright, 
natural self. He thought so much about her, that he came 
to the conclusion that she was not well, that she wanted 
some change. 

“ She has had such a dull life, my bonny, bright bird,^^ 
he said to himself. She felt the shock of her mother^s 
death; then I bring her here and shut her up in a lonely 
cottage, where all day long she hears nothing but the birds 
singing; she wants a change of scene, and she shall have it 
by some means or other. I will find the means, and I will 
take her down by the sea; she shall see the beautiful, fresh 
sea, and that will cure her; the first whisper of a breeze 
will bring a lovely fiush of color to her sweet face, and she 
will laugh heartily as the waves roll in. 1 long to see her 
there. 

He longed to tell her of the pleasure in store. How she 
would look up at him, and thank him; how she would de- 
light in the prospect. He laughed to himself, he wished 
that he had thought of it before. 

I reproach myself, he said; “ I have beefi so happy, 
I have been so lost in my love for her, that I have neglect- 
ed what I ought to have attended to. After her mother^s 


134 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


illness and death I ought not to have brought her here. 
She should have gone away at once; it is not too late — she 
shall go now.^^ 

Even the flowers lost their attraction this afternoon, he 
longed to be at home. 

He was walking quickly through the park, his hands 
filled with blossoms of all kinds — the most wonderful and 
beautiful variety — when he suddenly met Lord Cardin. 

I am glad to have met you, Owen,^^ said my lord; “ I 
have a letter for you, containing good news about ‘ Flower 
Life. ^ Eead it for yourself. 

It was good news; the publishers, to whom the work, in 
its revised and corrected form had been submitted, were 
delighted with it, and made him an offer for it which 
caused Owen to open his eyes and look at Lord Cardin. 

Surely, my lord,^^ he said, the trifles I noted down 
about flowers can never be worth all that.^^ 

“ If they were not worth it, you would not get it, 
Owen,^^ said Lord Cardin, Can you come up to the 
Hall? I should like to talk matters over with you.^^ 

But no, not for fifty such offers would he have neglected 
Laure; he must go home at once and tell her that he was 
going to take her to the beautiful, restless sea. He excused 
himself, and Lord Cardin appointed another time. Laure 
was before all the world with him. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

‘‘oh, god! my wiee.^^ 

All the way home, through the lovely, laughing sum- 
mer woods, he was singing aloud for sheer happiness. If, 
indeed, he should receive all this money, what would he 
not buy for Laure? If his sketches of flowers, and notes 
upon them, were to bring him in so large a sum, he saw a 
brilliant future before him, for he had more to write on 
the same subject. 

What would Laure say? The way home had never 
seemed so long before. What could he not buy for Laure? 
His imagination could go no further than a black silk dress 
— yes, she should have that; her beautiful figure would 
show to advantage in a silk dress. How proud he should 
be of her. Nay, he would do more than that; he would 


A NAMELESS SI^ST. 


135 


take her to Eosefchorpe, where she should buy just what 
she would; and simple Owen laughed as he thought of her 
delight. 

She should have all the money, all for herself; he want- 
ed none of it, and he was strong, he cared nothing for the 
things that pleased her, his darling. 

Ah, there was the cluster of chestnut trees; he should be 
at home now in two minutes. He stopped, laden as his 
hands were, to gather a lovely wild rose. Laure loved wild 
roses; he would take her this. 

There was the little cottage, with the roses laughing in 
at the window. A passionate flush rose to his face as he 
thought of his beautiful young wife; one moment more 
and he should clasp her in his arms. 

Laure, he cried, even before he opened the door. 

Laure, darling, come here.^^ 

There was no answer. 

She does not hear,^^ he thought. 

With his flower-laden hands he opened the door. The 
little kitchen was empty, no fire, no tea, no loving wife, no 
cheerful greeting, no tender words; only an empty room 
that had something quite chill about it. 

He placed his flowers on the table, and went into the 
little parlor; it was empty. 

Laure, he called again; Laure, darling, where are 
you?^^ 

Ho answer; and Owen for one moment felt slightly anx- 
ious — he feared she felt ill, and had gone up to her room. 
He was there in less than half a second, feeling terribly 
alarmed when he saw the bed empty. 

‘‘ Laure, he cried, and there was nothing but blank 
silence. 

Still no idea, not even the faintest, of anything wrong 
crossed his mind. He was slightly puzzled, and slightly 
sorry, he had been so eagerly anxious to see her. He de- 
cided in his own mind that she had gone to Eosethorpe, as 
she very often did, to purchase something for the house. 
Well, it would be a disappointment, certainly, it could not 
be otherwise, but he must wait; she would not be long; 
the shades of evening were drawing in, and Laure never 
stayed out late. 

He looked round for the faintest possible sign. Instead 
of Laure preparing for him, he must prepare for her. He 


136 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


knew how to do that; he made a cheerful fire, made the 
little kitchen look bright instead of dull, and then pre- 
pared tea for Laure, who was never more to return. 

He knew just what she liked, and how she liked to see 
fruit and flowers on the table, how she liked the golden 
honey. He made the little table very pretty, then he went to 
the door *and looked across the woods; there was no sign of 
her. The shadows were getting long on the grass, the 
wood-pigeons were cooing, the birds were singing their 
vesper hymn, the buds and blossoms were closing, the world 
seemed to be in hushed silence and sweetest rest. The 
sun had set, and in the western sky great crimson clouds 
were sinking. Where was Laure? 

There was a wide opening in the trees where the cluster 
of chestnuts stood. She would come from there soon; he 
should see her beautiful face smiling at him, hear the dear 
voice, with its soft, sweet music. So he stood and waited, 
while the future years unrolled themselves before him, so 
bright, so full of happiness. Ah, well, but for the delu- 
sions of life, it would be hard to live. 

He stood for more than an hour: the cooing of the ring- 
doves grew fainter, the birds were^ growing tired, the 
shadows grew longer and darker. Still she did not come. 
He said to himself that he would go to Eosethorpe to meet 
her. He closed the door, and started— not anxious, yet 
wondering why she was so long. At every sound, at every 
turn, he expected to see her; but there was no Laure. 
When he reached Eosethorpe he went to the shops where 
he knew Lanre dealt, but no one had seen her; he walked 
slowly through the streets, hoping to meet her; then, as it 
grew later and darker, he said to himself that he had 
missed her; she would be at home now. As he went back, 
he called at the old-fashioned toll-gate, where both himself 
and his wife were well known, to inquire whether she had 
passed there. 

No; they were quite sure they had not seen Mrs. Eoden 
that day. 

He fancied then that she must have gone somewhere 
else. If she had gone to Eosethorpe, she would be at home 
and waiting for him. He walked as quickly as he could. 
The soft, sweet, summer darkness lay over the woods; 
there was no sound as he hurried through them, save the 
faint stirring of the sleepy leaves. She would surely be at 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


137 


home waiting for him, witli tender words. But no; he saw 
at a glance the little house lay still in darkness; there was 
no fire, no light, no beautiful face with words of welcome, 
no Laure! 

He re-entered the little room; it was just as he had left 
it; she had not been home; he felt anxious and troubled, 
but as yet he had no doubt, not even the faintest. He 
came to the conclusion that she had been sent for. She 
might — it was just possible — have gone to the Hall; per- 
haps Lady Cardin had sent for her; he could go to the 
lodge gates and inquire. He went. But no; the woman 
who kept the lodge gates assured him that Mrs. Koden 
had not passed that day. 

Where was she? In the name of Heaven, where was she? 
He hurried back; but the house was still empty. What 
had become of her? He waited until midnight; still there 
was no sign, no sound. He went into her room and looked 
round it. He saw all her clothes, her few books, her little 
ornaments, the glass filled with wild flowers, that he had 
brought home for her on the previous evening; but where 
was she? 

Puzzled and anxious, he walked to and fro until the 
dawn of the morning. Then he grew really alarmed; that 
she should be out, and out all night, was terrible. He 
tried to think that she had been detained somewhere; that 
she would come back in the morning, with many excuses, 
and tell him where she had been detained. He did not try 
to sleep — sleep while Laure was away was impossible. 

So the full morning came; noon came; she was still ab- 
sent. He did not go to wOrk; he forgot all about the book; 
he did not eat, or sleep, or rest; he was looking for Laure. 

Lord Cardin sent for him; but he bade the messenger 
say he could not come. The end of that week found him 
foot-sore, weary, haggard and careworn; found him almost 
mad with his unutterable despair. 

He had said no word of his loss; he would not, for it 
had dawned across him, slowly, surely, that she had left 
him, and left him of her own accord. He found that she 
had gone in her best dress; and common-sense told him 
that she would not have put on that dress without know- 
ing why. The first time that idea came to him he laughed 
at it, scorned it, scouted it. Laure would never leave 
him. Slowly, surfly, the OQuyiciion came home to hinij 


138 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


that she must have left him. The letter with the fifty- 
pound note came; he never connected it with her; he 
thought it had something to do with his book; and tearing 
it in half, he trampled it under his feet. Of what use was 
money to him without his' darling. 

Still he told no one. Men met him looking haggard 
and worn — looking half mad; and they wondered what 
there was in his wild white face that repelled sympathy. 
No one dared go to him and say, ‘‘ What is the matter, 
Owen?^^ He told no one because he 'was so sure she would 
come back. In his gentle, loving heart he made all ex- 
cuses for her. She was young and thoughtless; she wanted 
to see something of the world; she had grown tired of the 
little cottage among the trees; but — Heaven bless him and 
all such simple, noble men — he never thought she had 
done wrong. She had not left him to go with any one 
else; neither love nor gold would tempt her from him. 
But she was young; and he had done wrong to try to keep 
her in that little gloomy house. He would never tell any 
one; he would keep her secret; no man should cast a slur 
on her name; no man should ever say she had betrayed 
him. Yet his misery had driven him almost mad. Lord 
Cardin, who was always kind and considerate to his in- 
feriors, went at last to look for him; he found him lying 
on the floor of his cottage, exhausted by his long fast and 
want of sleep; my lord hardly recognized, in this haggard, 
worn man, the bright, active Owen whom he had never 
seen yet without a smile on his face. 

The first thing Lord Cardin did was to take his brandy- 
flask — which he fortunately had with him — and pour some 
brandy between the white lips. Then he waited until 
some signs of life returned. 

Owen,^^ he said, “ what has gone wrong with you? 
Why do I find you in this state? Where is your wife?^^ 

My wife!^^ he cried, oh, my wife!^^ 

The words seemed to break the strong resolve; he turned 
from Lord Cardin and hid his face, 

‘‘ My wife!^^ he cried. Oh, God, my wife!^’ 

And Lord Cardin listened ^to those sobs and tears until 
he felt himself growing ill and faint. * What could have 
happened, he wondered, to have brought a strong man so 
low. 

“ My lord,^^ he said, at last, I am ashamed of myself 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


139 


—quite ashamed; but I have been so long without food and 
without sleep. I have had a dreadful trouble, my lord. 

‘‘ Where is your wife?"" repeated Lord Cardin. 

My lord, you must not think it wrong of her; she is as 
pure as an angel; but she— she grew tired of the cottage 
and the trees here; it was too dull for her— she has gone to 
live somewhere else. "" 

Then the great wave of his anguish swept over him, and 
he fell at Lord Cardin "s feet. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE SUFFERINGS OF A NOBLE HEART. 

He never told her secret, he kept it faithfully; if any 
one suspected, they did not say so to him; there was some- 
thing ill his face, in his manner, that checked all questions; 
he was prouder in his sorrow and loneliness than he had 
ever been in his happiness. 

For many long days he lay in the little cottage, simply 
because he had not the strength to rise and go out to his 
duties. The very soul and life were crushed in him; his 
heart seemed dead.; he could not recover from the shock. 
He made no complaint, but he fastened his door against 
the whole world, and, turning his face to the wall prayed 
that he might die; but death does not come to the young 
and strong when they wish for it or long for it; it did not 
come to him. The keen edge of his sorrow grew more 
blunt; the grand strength of his manhood seemed to re- 
turn to him, and once more he rose to do battle with the 
world. 

Lord Cardin was very kind to him; he had infinite pity 
and compassion for this simple, noble man whose lips were 
sealed by his simple, faithful love; he was kind to him dur- 
ing his illness; he would not have teased him with ques- 
tions, he was kind to him in every way; he read the secret 
of that simple heart; he knew that the beautiful young 
wife had run away from him and would return no more 
it was an old story to him. He misjudged Laure; he 
thought her worse than she was; he believed that she had 
deceived and betrayed her young husband; that she had 
left him to go with some one else who could give her lux- 
liry and gayety; he never dreamed of the reality — to him 


140 


A KAl^rELESS SIN". 


it was the old story — and he respected the anguisli of the 
young husband who would have suffered anything rather 
than have let his wife^s story go forth to the world. He 
was kind to him in this way — that he stood between him 
and the world — he told the stoi-y in such a way there was 
no other question to be asked. 

Do not speak to Owen about his wife/ ^ he said. ‘‘ The 
fact is, she found that kind of life too dull for her; she did 
not like the cottage, and she has gone away; he thinks she 
will return in a year or two — and perhaps she will; but say 
nothing to him about it.^^ 

So that long before Owen had returned to his place in 
the world, every one knew what had happened, and that it 
was my lord^s wish that no one should speak to Owen 
about it. 

They were tender-hearted as children to him, those 
strong, stalwart, wood-keepers, gamekeepers, and under- 
gardeners; they were delicate and refined with him, as the 
highest noble in the land could have been; they never spoke 
of their wives or children in his presence; they never spoke 
of the comforts of home. It was by their avoidance of all 
these topics, by the gentleness that stole into each rough 
face and voice, that Owen understood they knew and re- 
spected his sorrow. The person who really hurt him was 
Lady Cardin, whose beautiful Java birds had been found 
dead. She went to the cottage herself, and insisted on see- 
ing Owen; she looked up with pity when the gaunt, hag- 
gard man stood before her. 

‘‘ How much you must have suffered to look like that/^ 
she said. 

He bowed, but he made no answer. My lady was one 
of those imperious women who expect an answer, and will 
have one. She almost dazzled Owen^s eyes as she stood in 
the little parlor; her rich dress sweeping the floor, her tall 
figure erect, and her handsome face, with its bright, keen 
eyes, looking into his face. 

How much you have suffered, Owen,^’ she repeated. 

“ My lady,^^ he said, we will not speak of my suffer- 
ings, they are of no account. 

It is something new for you to dictate to me, Owen, 
what I shall say,^^ replied Lady Cardin. “I repeat that 
you must have suffered much; there is no harm, no wrong 
in that. Let me say that I am sorry for it/^ 


A ]SrAMELESS SIK. 


141 


Her face and voice both softened as she spoke. He 
thanked her, and my lady continued: 

‘‘I am sorry indeed for you. Where is that unhaiipy 
wife of yours, Owen?^^ 

‘‘ I would rather not speak of my wife, my lady; wher- 
ever she is I hold her in all honor and esteem. 

That is all nonsense. If she has left you she deserves 
neither honor nor esteem; and it is absurd for you to speak 
of giving, her either. Wliere is she?^^ 

‘‘You must not think I am rude, my lady; but I can 
not tell yon/^ he said. 

No one should draw from him this secret of his misery. 

Lady Cardin continued: 

“ It is nonsense of you, Owen, to try to shield her. If 
she has really been base enough to leave you, you ought to 
expose her. I have no patience for the weak love that 
makes excuses for anything and everything. 

“ My lady,^^ he said, gravely, “ there is a love so weak 
that even you may despise it, and there is a love so strong 
that you can not even understand it; that is my love."^^ 

Lady Cardin^s face flushed slightly. 

“ I did not come here to discuss the different kinds of 
love with you, but to ask you a question my position en- 
titles me to ask. Where is your wife?^^ 

“ I can not answer it,^^ he replied. 

“ That should be answer sufficient,^ ^ she said. 

“ My lady,^^ said Owen, “ I believe in my wife as I be- 
lieve in Heaven, She is no light-of-love. If she has gone 
away for a time she has good reason for it; and she will 
return, I have no fear of it — none — she will return.’^ 

“You will be to blame if you take her in,^^ said Lady 
Cardin. 

“ Why?^^ asked Owen, briefly. 

“ You must be foolish not to understand why she left 
you,^^ sneered my lady. 

“ I will understand nothing against her,^^ he said, “ not 
one word. I believe in her as I believe in Heaven. 

“ You pay no great compliment to Heaven, said my 
lady. “ If you do not understand, you ought to. I never 
liked your wife; those women who think themselves so 
pretty are very seldom much good.-’^ 

He only smiled as he thought to himself how jealous my 


U2 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


lady was of Laurels most beautiful face. That did not 
hurt him. 

She continued: 

Your wife was proud and vain; it is easy enough to see 
that she left you because she valued that which you could 
not give her more than she valued your love. She has 
gone off with some one who can give her fine dresses. 

She stopped suddenly, for the pain in his white face 
shocked her. 

He held up his hand. 

“ Hush, my lady,^Mie said, hoarsely. ‘‘You do not 
know what you are saying; you have no right to utter such 
words. I love my lord, and I have served liim well; but 1 
declare, before Heaven, if you say one word against my 
dear and beautiful young wife, I will go; and I would 
rather die of starvation than ever take one farthing in your 
service again. 

The words touched her. She said no more, for she saw 
that he'^'would keep his word. Proud as she was, she liked 
Owen, and so did her husband; and she knew better than 
to drive him to extremes. She shrugged her shoulders. 

“ You are very foolish, she said. “ But of course you 
will please yourself. I am sorry for you, Owen Koden. 
Is there anything that I can do to help you?^^ 

“ I do not want any help, my lady/^ he said. 

She looked round the pretty, neat little cottage. 

“ You can not live here alone,^^ she said. 

“I shall not be alone,^^he answered. “My wife will 
come back soon. 

That proud, haughty lady left him with tears in her eyes. 

“ He has a grand soul,^^ she said to herself; “ a grand, 
simple, chivalrous soul. How could any woman leave such 
a man?^^ 

After that my lady always treated ^ him with the greatest 
kindness and consideration: she sent him pretty little pres- 
ents of no great value, but showing her kindly feeling; she 
lent him books; she never missed an opportunity of being 
kind to him. She would not allow any one to speak evil 
of his wife; that simple, earnest, loving faith had touched 
her. As the years rolled on Owen became more like a 
trusted friend to Lord and Lady Cardin than anything 
else. 

It was pitiful as a great tragedy and beautiful as the 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


143 


sweetest j^oem how he watched and waited for her for six 
whole years; there was no moment, night or day, in which 
he did not expect her. He had put all his money away — 
he would not touch one farthing of it — it was for Laure 
when she returned. It was pitiful; and when the women 
of the country-side spoke of it, it was with tears in their 
eyes. 

All through the dark winter evenings he kept a lamp 
burning in the window, so that, let his darling come back 
when she would, she would know, even before she entered 
the house, how warm and loving a welcome awaited her. 
There was something so sad, so pathetic in the light of that 
little lamp as it streamed on the dark ground or the white 
snow, that no one could pass it without a sigh for the 
noble, kindly heart suffering in silence and sorrow. 

So tliKough the warm, bright summer days he would 
have the doors open and the sunlight peeping in, so that 
she should feel herself welcome, and know that love as 
warm and true as the sun itself awaited her. It was piti- 
ful how he started at every sound — at the breaking of a 
branch, the least movement of the leaves, a footstep on the 
dead leaves — he started and hastened to the door with a 
flush on his face, only to return with the faint hope dead 
and a new pain in his heart. 

So six years passed; and during the course of them not 
one word against her, not one thought against her ever 
passed his lips. There were times when, for whole days 
together, he was possessed with the idea that she was re- 
turning, when he never sought sleep nor food, but walked 
to and fro through the woods and the high-roads, stopping 
at times to call her name aloud, and the sound of it fright- 
ened the singing birds from the trees; but there was no 
sign of her— it was as though she had vanished from the 
face of the earth. 

He never lost his faith in her; his was the love of a mar- 
tyr, of a hero, so grand in its perfect trust that it was half 
divine; it never grew less. It was a mystery to him, this 
flight of hers; but he believed that she would return some 
day and explain it all, just as he believed in the light of the 
stars, the beauty of the flowers, or the mercy of Heaven. 
He could not have greater faith; but his faith, as his love, 
was all in vain. 


144 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“l AM A DEAD MAN.^^ 

This had continued for six long years. It was in the 
seventh year that Dr. Lainham, the learned gentleman 
who had taken such interest in Owen^s career, wrote to liim 
and asked him to come to his house in London. Flower 
Life had already .passed through many editions; but only 
a few knew by whom it was written. Owen would not 
allow his name to be printed — that name Laure had borne 
and had made so jirecious to him. He had forgotten all 
about the book; he had never read the reviews that had 
praised it. He had never felt the least pleasure in it now 
that Laure was gone. 

He would have declined Dr. Lainham^s invitation, but 
that Lord Cardin would not allow him. 

Nonsense, Ovven,^^ he said, you must go. I can not 
let you bury your talent under a bushel after this fashion. 
You must go. Doctor Lainham wants to comjmre notes 
with you to see if you have any morejnforrnation; if so, he 
sees his way, no doubt, to another book. Owen,^^ con- 
tinued Lord Cardin, earnestly, how I wish I could see 
you throw off this apathy. You might be one of the first 
men in England if you would; no one understands flowers 
as you do.''^ 

‘‘I shall care about it all when Laure comes back,^^ said 
Owen. 

And Lord Cardin turned away with a sigh; he knew the 
chances were Laure would never come back. He had his 
own way in one respect — he compelled Owen to go to Dr. 
Lainham^s and take with him all his written notes, assur- 
ing him that they would be found to be of great value. 

Owen went. He spent two or three pleasant weeks with 
Dr. Lainham — weeks that cheered and brightened him 
with a thousand new thoughts. He saw and understood 
all that life held more than he had ever done be^pre. 

He saw that Heaven had been most good to him; that 
he had a wonderful talent; and he understood that, with 
this talent, he could have made a name and fame for him- 
self; he could liave acquired wealth and position, if only 


A NAMELESS SIN. 145 

Laure had been tliere to help him, to share it with him; 
without her it was quite valueless to him — quite useless. 

Still he enjoyed London. It was in the month of May; 
and the doctor took him to Kew Gardens — to every garden 
of note in London — and if for one moment he could have 
forgotten Laure he would have been happy; but he could 
not forget her. It was now six years since he had seen 
her, yet her lovely young face was before him as vividly as 
ever. 

One bright May day the doctor had some engagement, 
and Owen was left to himself. He wandered through 
Hyde Park, and came to the Eow. It was the first time 
he had seen that wonderful sight — the carriages, the horses, 
the beautiful women filled him with wonder; his heart beat 
whenever a girPs golden head came in sight. 

He was watching the crowd, when suddenly, among 
those near him there was a slight stir; murmurs of admira- 
tion and whispered comments. With others he looked to 
see — a magnificent carriage with two fine horses was com- 
ing along. His dazzled eyes saw a handsome man playing 
with a lovely, fairy-like child, seated by a lady so gorgeous- 
ly beautiful that it was no wonder every one turned to look 
at her as she passed. She was perhaps one minute in jiass- 
ing where he stood — one minute; but to him it held whole 
hours of torture; earth and sky seemed to meet; his tort- 
ured eyes seemed dazed, for the beautiful face into which 
he gazed was surely the face of Laure, his lost wife, as it 
was sure that the sun shone in heaven. 

He saw her plainly. She was leaning back in her car- 
riage, her attitude one of careless, exquisite grace. She 
held a parasol which threw a delicate rose tint on her face; 
her proud', bright eyes wandered over the crowd of faces 
with a half amused smile; they lingered for half a moment 
on the man who loved her with so wonderful a love, but 
there was no recognition in them — nothing but a calm 
smile; and then she was gone. 

Gone. The carriage rolled easily along; the crowd 
seemed to close in after it; and it was out of his sight — 
gone. 

He had seen her again; he had looked into the face which 
held the very light of Heaven; and he -had seen her dressed 
like a queen, with all the dignity of a grand duchess; he 
had seen her smiling in another man^s face with a little 


14G 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


cliild between them. Oh, Heaven, that he had seen this 
sight and lived. For one moment the white tortured face 
looked wildly around, then the fashionable throng were 
somewhat astonished; he fell down among them like a dead 
man, and they drew away in horror. 

One or two good Samaritans rushed to him and picked 
him up; a doctor came and said hediad swooned, but would 
be all right soon. No one dreamed that the lovely lady 
with the golden hair had crushed the very heart within 
him. 

An hour or two later he was back in Dr. Lainham^s 
house. And that learned man was looking at him with 
wondering eyes. 

‘‘You have been in the park, Koden. What have you 
seen there to drive all the color from your face, and make 
you look more than half mad?^^ 

He had seen nothing. He would not speak of Laure. 
He would not tell what he had seen. 

“ I did not know that I could die another death, he said 
to himself; “ but that has killed me. I must go home.^^ 

He bade Dr, Lainham good-bye the next day; he left all 
his closely written pages with him; if they were worth 
printing the doctor could do what he liked with them; as 
for the money he did not want it. 

“ I can not understand you, Eoden,^^ said the doctor. 

“ No, you can not; you must think of me as you would 
of a dead man. I am to all intents and purposes a dead 
man. 

“ It is a great sin to let one^s talents rest, Eoden. They 
are given to us to make a good use of; and you know what 
happens to those who bury them.^^ 

“ I can only repeat that I am a dead man. God knows 
why. He will not be angry. He knows why.^^ 

And when Owen Eoden had gone, the man of science 
sat for some time thinking of him. He roused himself 
with a sigh. 

“ There is a woman in the case, I am sure,^^ he said. 
“ There is nothing that plays the mischief with a man as 
a woman does. Poor Owen; there is another genius lost to 
the world, and all through a woman. If men could be 
content to love flowers and plants 

He went home, back to the little cottage he had kept 
sacred as a slirine for her; and there he realized his loss — 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


147 


realized whafc had happened. The first loss, that of her 
bright, sweet presence, was nothing to him now; the loss 
of her beautiful bright face, her sweet voice, her loving, 
caressing ways, all that was less than this, the darkest, 
saddest loss of all, the loss of his faith in her, of his trust. 

Who was that by her side? who had tempted her away 
from him? who had surrounded her with luxuries? W'^ho 
was that little, lovely child, with Laurels face, and Laurels 
eyes? who was it? 

Great Heaven ! that he should live to ask that question. 
He looked round the place that had been sacred as a shrine 
to her, where he had worshiped her beauty, her purity, her 
goodness; where he had consecrated his life to one loving, 
passionate memory of her; looked round it as a torrent of 
burning words rose to his lips. He crushed them back; 
he would not utter them; he would die rather than say any 
word against her — die any death. 

My pretty little home, ’^ he said. Oh, Laure, what 
a heart you have crushed, what a love you have trampled 
onV’ 

He could bear the place no more. Had she died it 
would have been the most sacred shrine to him. Even had 
he not seen her it would have been a shrine where he would 
have worshiped the memory of her purity and truth; but 
now — 

There was a wide opening between the trees, and there 
Owen Roden kindled a large fire. Then slowly enough he 
brought out everything the house held — the little picture 
Laure had loved, her chair, her little work-table, the pretty 
toilet-table — brought everything she had bver touched or 
used, and threw them into the fire. Those who saw the 
smoke rising from between the trees thought that Owen 
Roden was making a huge bonfire, but no one guessed what 
was burning there. 

Then he looked round the empty rooms, the bare walls 
that he was never to see again; he tore down the white 
roses her hands had trained, he threw away the green bush 
of southern-wood she had planted at the door. He bade 
farewell to the little house — the home where he had been 
so happy — then he went to the Hall. Lord Cardin met 
him cordially, and went to him with outstretched hand. 
He stopped abruptly as his eyes fell on that haggard face, 
and the words died on his lips. 


U8 


A ITAMELESS Sm. 


^ Lord Cardin/^ he said, in a broken voice, I have 
come to bid you good-b 3 ^e. I can not stay here — nofc 
another day. 

Where are you going, Owen?^^ he asked. 

I do nofc know, my lord. Out; infco fche wide world. I 
can nofc tell; anywhere. 

Whafc has happened?^^ asked Lord Cardin. 

‘‘ 1 can not tell you, my lord, though you are the kindest, 
best friend I have in the world. I can not tell you; the 
heart and the manhood are crushed within me. I am a 
dead man.^^ 

‘‘ It has something to do with your wife, I know,^^ said 
Lord Cardin; nothing else would shake and touch you. 
I will not ask for your confidence, Owen, but I will ask 
this, can I do anything in the wide world to help you?^^ 

No, my lord; I am sorry to leave you, but I could 
nofc stay; I could not enter the house again; I could nofc 
bear the sight of these familiar scenes; I could nofc live 
here; so I am going^'away to lose myself in the great wide 
world of men.;’ 

There was little more to say. The two men shook hands 
in silence, and as Owen Eoden passed out of his sight for- 
ever, Lord Cardin said to himself: 

‘‘There is another noble, clever man spoiled, ruined, 
driven mad by a woman’s folly — driven mad, ruined body 
and soul, all through loving a woman. It would be well 
if such men could fix their hearts on other things.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A MAN WELL RECOMMENDED. 

A GLIMPSE of Owen. Was it possible? Lady Ulverston 
asked herself over and over again. No, it was but fancy 
— nothing more than an idle dream. She had been driv- 
ing with her husband in the park, and while the carriage 
was passing slowly under the shade of the trees, she had 
fancied she saw Owen’s face. Of course ifc was but a 
foolish, idle fancy. Would Owen be in London — in that 
fine, fashionable crowd, watching th^ carriages and the 
beautiful women? Ifc was nonsense to think of such a 
thing. She had been deceived by some shade of resem- 
blance, by some trick of feature; she had met fully the 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


149 


elance of the man so like Owen, and there had been no 
recognition in it. How absurd she was. But she had not 
seen that same man fall to the ground as though he were 
stricken dead. When should she forget Owen. Lord 
Ulverston’s beautiful wife would give the halt ot her 
beauty, the half of her possessions, to be able to forget. It 
was the memory of the wrong she had done that poisoned her 
life. She had risen so completely above her other lite, it 
would be so utterly impossible for her to do now as she had 
done then. Since then her mind, her soul, her conscience 
had been educated; she shuddered when she remembered 
it. When she was most feted, most courted, she would ask 
herself: “What would people say to me, now, if they 
knew? What would they think of me if they could see me 
in my true colors?” She could never, let her try as she 

would, forget her sin. , ^ tt j 

She was very happy with Lord Ulverston. He was de- 
votedly fond of his beautiful wife. He thought her peer- 
less among women, and she loved him as a prince among 
men; his noble character, his rectitude, his pride, his con- 
tempt of wrong, his love of right had all won her admira- 
tion and love. They were happy, she was obedient and 
submissive to him; she yielded to his superiority without a 
murmur. People greeted her as a model wife; they talked 
of her amiability and her sweetness; they were quite uncon- 
scious of the fact that a terrible background was to be 
found in this life which seemed so simple and so innocent, 

so sweet and good. » i • , j.- 

The Marquis de Bourdon was very proud ot his beauti- 
ful niece; he hatl always felt quite sure of her success m 
society, but it exceeded his wildest dreams; it was mqie 
than he had hoped for. He spent a great deal time with 
them; he was a frequent visitor at Ulvers. When Lord 
and Lady Ulverston went to town he always went. He 
was warmly attached to them both. When Lady Lame s 
little daughter was born, his happiness knew no bounds. 
It was one of the prettiest sights in the world to see the 
two gentlemen, both so stately, tall and aristocratic, in 
raptures of delight over the tiny rose-bud of a baby, and 
they called her Lily, because she was so fair. She was like 
Lady Laure; she had dark, soft eyes, full of wonderful 
meaning, full of solemn wonder, with soft, golden rings oi 
curls. 


150 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


Lady Laure worshiped her. The strongest impulse of 
her heart was maternal love, and she idolized this lovely, 
tiny girl. She could never bear to be separated from her. 
Even when she went to town, Lily must go with her; when 
she drove out in the park she could not go without the 
child. She had loved little John after the same worship- 
ing fashion, but it was so seldom that she ever found the 
opportunity of seeing him so that she could talk to him at 
her ease. The love repressed there was all lavished on the 
little Lily. - 

John Owen had grown into a fine, handsome boy. He 
was six years old now, and considered himself a man; he 
was dauntless in spirit — a boy that any mother could have 
worshiped — noble, fiery, brave, truthful. In ‘one thing he 
was above his age, that was his passionate love for the 
beautiful Lady Ulverston. She had not always been quite 
so careful as she should have been. When he was quite a 
little child she had caressed him and talked to him, in 
what Pattie said was a very imprudent fashion. 

He will remember it, my lady, she said, ‘‘ and he will 
expect you always to do the same thing. 

‘‘He will forget it, Pattie, Lady Ulverston had an- 
swered. 

But the maid was right, the mistress wrong. He did 
not forget it, and he expected her to do the same. 

How she loved him! When they came to Ulvers, Pattie, 
by Lord Ulverston ^s consent, brought the boy with her, 
and he remained for a week or two at the Hall; then a 
home was found for him at Knareston, the little town which 
belonged almost entirely to the lord of Ulvers. He lived 
there with a Mrs. Chiltern, who had several children of 
his own. Her husband was head gamekeeper on the estate, 
and the little boy was happy enough there. They called 
him John Owen Clark; and Pattie would weave many a 
story for him of an ideal dead father, who had been the 
very soul of honor, of a fair young mother smiling down 
from the blue skies. 

Once, as she was sitting with the boy in a nook, lovely 
enough to be a fairy dell, both making cowslip balls, Pattie 
told him one of these stories, and my lady overheard it. 
Her beautiful face flushed. 

“ Pattie, she said, vehemently, “ I wish you would not 
teach him that his father is dead.^^ 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


151 


‘‘ It will be for the best, my lady.^^ 

It will not — I can not bear to hear it. You forget 
me. 

Nay,* my lady, I never forget you,^^ said Pat tie, gen- 
tly. It is for your own sake I speak. You have the fut- 
ure to tliink of, more than the present. Let the child 
grow up in the belief that I would give him. It makes 
your secret all the safer. 

But Lady Ulverston did at times forget what was pru- 
dent. She caught the child in her arms now and kissed 
him. 

Say, ‘ my mother,^ John,^^ she said. 

And the boy raising his eyes to the blue sky, said : 

There — my mother is there. 

She covered him with passionate tears and kisses. 

'Now, at Ulverston, she very seldom went near the house 
where the child lived. Mrs. Chiltern hardly knew that 
my lady knew of his existence; she never made any inquiries 
over it. Only Pat tie knew that more than once Lord 
Ulverston had admired the noble little fellow. . There was 
a scene once that delighted Lady Ulverston, though it 
brought the tears to her eyes. She was walking in the 
park with the little Lily, and in the distance she saw Pattie 
just taking the boy home. She called him to her. In his 
frank, fearless fashion he went, holding out his little hand. 
He bowed to her with the courtesy of a little lord. He 
had been well brought up, this little child, who belonged 
to no one. Then he looked at the lovely, fairy girl. 

How pretty she is,^^ he cried; oh, how pretty,^^ and 
without another word, without waiting for permission or 
invitation, he threw his arms round her neck and kissed 
her. 

Instead of crying, the little Lily looked at him with de- 
light. Pattie called him away in horrified, haste, but Lady 
Ulverston bending over him, said : 

Do you like that little girl, John?^^ 

‘‘ Yes, I like her,^^ he answered. 

Then kiss her again, said my lady. 

The two lovely little faces touched each other. 

My lady, you must not,^^ said Pattie; “ you must not 
indeed. You will be sorry for it afterward. You are do- 
ing wrong. 


152 


A KAMELESS SIN. 


‘‘It is only for once, Pattie/^ said my lady, “ only for 
once. They look so nice together. 

She stood for a few minutes looking at them, and per- 
haps there was no time in her life when her sin smote her 
with more terrible anguish. 

These were both her children — the one abandoned, 
neglected, deprived of the love of his mother, of the care 
of his father, deprived of home, of everything, because to 
further her own advancement in life she had given him up. 
There was the other, beloved, honored, petted, worshiped, 
sheltered in home by the love of father and mother. Oh, 
how unequal were such lots — how unjust. Of these two, 
her own children, she had to send one away, with cold 
words, the other she might gather to her heart with 
caresses. 

It came home to her there, how cruelly she had wronged 
that boy, how she had defrauded him of his most sacred 
rights, even though in some measure she could better 
provide for him. No one could ever have seen that moth- 
er and son together without knowing or guessing there was 
some tie between them. The child had grown up so much 
like Owen that he was Owen in miniature, yet there was 
something of my lady in his face when he was near her. 
Lady Ulverston seemed as though she could not help her- 
self, as though her fingers must touch the bonny curls, as 
though she must kiss the bonny face, as though she must 
take him in her arms and never let him go. It required 
all Pattie^s time and attention to keep my lady from some 
terrible imprudence which would perhaps compromise 
her. 

So time had passed and the spring of the year had come. 
Lord and Lady Ulverston began to think of returning to 
Ulvers. Lord Ulverston said the gardens would be all in 
their greatest beauty. His wife turned away at the men- 
tion of the word. He laughed aloud. 

“ You never care to hear about the gardens, Laure,^^ he 
said; “it is a strange thing for a beautiful woman not to 
love flowers; you are the first I have known. 

“ I do not love them/^ she said, and in good truth she 
did not. The very sight and fragrance of them always 
brought Owen back so forcibly to her mind. She never 
willingly lingered near them; it was noticed that she very 
seldom carried a bouquet; she always wore jewels in prefer- 


A NAMELESS SIK. 


153 


ence to flowers. No one ever saw her stand near the beau- 
tiful jardinieres; she never by preference walked in the 
flower garden. No one who wished to please her ever 
brought her flowers. It was strange, as Lord Ulverston 
said, but no one knew what painful, pitiful memories 
flowers had for her. 

I wish sometimes, Laure,^^ he said, that you did take 
more interest in the gardens. I am so very fond of them — I 
mean to have them enlarged. I am looking out for a 
clever man who can take the entire superintendence of 
them. 

She did not feel much interest in the matter, but listened 
to him with all amiable interest. 

“ It is not really an easy thing to find a man who 
thoroughly understands flowers and the art of gardening; 
he must be poet and artist in a small way. &r Arthur 
Mason has written to me about a man who has been for 
some months with him, a man whom he calls a genius. I 
think I shall engage him.^"^ 

Is he a genius?^^ she asked, listlessly. 

Sir Arthur says so. Let me see, here is his note: ‘ A 
strange man, very silent and reserved, but clever and won- 
derful in his arrangement and combination of color. His 
name is Mitchel; his age over thirty.^ I think I shall en- 
gage him.'’^ 

‘‘ It would be as well, if he be really clever, she an- 
swered, but the matter did not engage her attention for 
five minutes; it had no interest for her. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

A CAKE WORK MAK. 

Lord Ulyerstok stood alone in his beautiful gardens; 
he was looking around them with pride and delight. Yet, 
beautiful as they were, he could see where improvement 
would make them even more beautiful; he could see where 
a fountain could throw its silvery spray into the air, where 
white statues could gleam from between the green trees; he 
could see where a man with true artistic taste could make 
something like an earthly paradise of his grounds, and he 
sighed for the coming of the new gardener who was to work 
such marvels there. 


154 


A N-AMELESS SIN. 


As he stood looking around him, with happy eyes and a 
glad happy heart, one of the servants came to say that Mr. 
Mitchel had arrived. 

Lord Ulverston looked well pleased. 

He has come, has he? Send him here to me. I am 
much pleased. 

A few minutes later, and Mitchel stood before his new 
master, and Lord Ulverston was delighted, puzzled, and 
interested in his appearance. He saw before him a tall, 
strong, handsome man, with grand strong limbs, a broad 
chest, bonny shoulders and a frank, honest face; he had 
clusters of brown curls that covered a noble head. 

An ideal gardener,^^ thought Lord Ulverston to him- 
self. 

Yet, though he was handsome and strong, he did not 
look like a gentleman. He was simply a fine specimen of 
the old English yeoman. But it was his face that attratced 
Lord Ulverston^s attention — a good, honest, earnest face, 
so cruelly marked with pain, he looked as though he had 
suffered more terribly than words could tell. There were 
great lines on his brow, and lines round his mouth, that 
told of long-repressed anguish and bitter pain. He was 
quite young, but among the clustering curls one could see 
the gray hairs; his face had a worn, weary expression that 
made Lord Ulverston wonder much. He had a pleasant 
voice, a slow, gentle, pleasant smile; but, no matter what 
he was saying or doing, he had the look of one whose 
thoughts were fixed on some inward wound that never 
healed. 

Lord Ulverston greeted him kindly. He liked him at 
once, and when they had talked for a short time he was de- 
lighted with MitcheUs quaint knowledge, his thorough 
acquaintance with trees and flowers, his love for them, his 
keen artistic eye. He turned to him, with a smile. 

I have often quoted the old Latin saying, that a poet 
must be born, and not made,^^ he said; “ now I believe 
the same thing of a gardener; one must be born with a 
true taste for these things. 

Mitchel, as he stood by his lordship^s side, sketched in 
few words for him a plan by which the grounds could be 
greatly improved, and again Lord Ulverston was struck 
with his aptitude and genius. He had not engaged him as 
head gardener; the one who now filled that post had held 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


155 


it for years, and Lord Ulverston never hurt the mind or 
wounded the feelings of any of his old servants, lie wou d 
not say to this one that he found him incapable; he was old 
and probably had not long to live; but he engaged Mitc iel 
to superintend the alterations. There was something noble 
and dignified now about his lordship as he stood speaking 
of his faithful old servant, Martin Olive. ^ . 

‘‘I am sure, Mitchel,^^ he said, ‘‘you will understand 
that in every way I want to spare the old man^s feelings. 
You will ask his advice, just to please him; you need 
never follow it. Consult him every now and then. 1 like 

old Martin.^’ . j t? 

Mitchel looked up at him with softened eyes, i^rom 
that hour master and man were excellent friends. 

Mitchel said something about the great natural beauty ot 
the ground, and the great profusion of fiowers. Lord 
Ulverston never knew why he began to talk about ms wile. 


but he did so. . , 

“ Lady Ulverston takes no interest in the garden, he 
said; “ she does not like flowers. 

Mitchel looked up with some surprise. 

Not like flowers, my lord,^^ he said; “ how strange. 1 
have never heard before of any lady who did not like 
flowers,^" and his mind reverted in one moment to that 
beautiful wife of his who loved them and cared for them 
as though they were living creatures. 

“ It is strange,"" said Lord Ulverston; but that ac- 
counts in some measure for the little interest that has been 
taken in the garden. Lady Ulverston prefers the park and 
the woods. I am often surprised at it. "" 

They said no more on the subject, but Mitchel thought 
more than once of the lady who did not like flowers. 

That evening, when Lord Ulverston was talking over the 
events of the day, he told his wife that Mitchel, whom he 
had engaged to superintend the alterations, had arrived, 
and how pleased he was with him. My lady was playing 
negligently with a pearl fan, and hardly heard his words. 

‘‘ He seems very clever,"" said Lord Ulverston, “ and has 
such a quaint beautiful way of speaking about flowers; he 
seems to think they are of quite as much consequence as 

people. " " X • 

She made no answer. The subject did not interest her 
in the least, and Lord Ulverston, seeing that it was so, said 


156 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


110 more. She never dreamed in her indifference that the 
man she had loved and married^, whose lawful wife she was, 
lived near her now, and was the paid servant of her husband; 
she never dreamed that fate had brought Owen even to 
her very doors; that the time was drawing near when the 
horror of her crime must come home to her, and the price 
be paid. 

Owen Eoden had struggled hard with himself, when he 
left Lord Cardin^s, to lose himself, as he said, in the wide 
world. He never intended to work or to interest himself 
in anything again; he did not care to live — he wished that 
he might die by the roadside, unknown, uncared for. 
Why should he live any longer when life had no charm, no 
pleasure, no hope? But death seldom comes to those who 
seek it. It did not come near Owen. He sought for no 
work, he wandered listlessly from place to place; he never 
entered a green church-yard that he did not pray Heaven 
he might remain tliere. 

When he found a quiet village home he rested there, un- 
til the fever of his own thoughts drove him away. As the 
years passed on his grief grew no less, his sorrow did not 
abate; the memory of that time when he saw Laure in all 
the splendor of her beauty, with the child whom he knew 
to be hers by her side, that memory never left it. The 
picture was burned into his brow, stamped upon his heart; 
he saw it everywhere; and so it was that the fever of his 
love never died, and the sting of his sorrow never left him. 
Yet it was wonderful how, throughout all his wanderings, 
every one loved him, how the little children crowded round 
him, and the women treated him as a friend. The dogs 
came and licked his hands; everything created seemed to 
understand his gentle, earnest, loving, honest nature. 
What thoughts went with him through these wanderings. 
In the pleasant, fragrant summer evenings he would stand 
at some cottage door, watching a fair-hairecL young moth- 
er at play with her children, watching them with such wist- 
ful pathos, such sad, loving eyes, that very^ften a child 
would break from the caressing clasp of his mother^s arms 
and run to him. 

There would be no child^s love for him. Ah, dear 
Heaven, if Laure had but stayed with him, if she had but 
been true to him, as these wives whom he saw in the vil- 
lage homes were to their liusbands, it might have been that 


A NAMEtESS SW. 


157 


he would have a child of his own like these happy, brown- 
limbed, careless children, for whom their mother’s love 
made heaven. Ah, no! there was no such joy for him, no 
such happiness, and he would wonder as h? stood, why so 
much happiness was given to some and so little to others. 

So he spent two or three years of his life. Never a cai- 
riage drove past him that he did not raise his eyes to see if 
it held the beautiful, false woman whom he called his 

"^^He had no idea of where she was, whether her home was 
in England or abroad; whether she lived in the town or the 
country he could form no idea; but he reproached himself 
for one thing. He ought when he saw her to have asked 
whose carriage that was. Then he would have known by 
what name she was called in this new, false life of heis. 
He blamed himself that he liiui not turned quickly to one 
of the bystanders, and asked who that lady was. lhat 
by-stander would have known. 

^Yet what would it have benefited him? bhe had gone 
out of his life. Even if he knew where she was, and what 
she was doing, it would not benefit him, not in the least; 
it could not bring her back to him young, loving, and true. 
Why should he desire to see her? But he thought of ner 
until at times he almost went mad— until he could not bear 
his life or anything in it, and he tried to walk oft Ins 
trouble — he wandered about, he wasted his life, but he did 

”°Then by slow degrees the strength of his manhood re- 
asserted itself; he began to tire of inaction; the natural 
force of his character and the nobility of his soul came to 
the front again; he must work an^ must live. He had done 
the wisest thing he could do in leaving his home and his 
old life behind him. There were times when he said to 
himself that Owen Eoden was dead— slam by the beautiful 
young wife he loved so dearly. This silent, haggard, care- 
worn man, wandering wherever will and fancy led him, 
this was not Owen Eoden, not the happy-hearted rnan who 
had dreamed bright dreams, and married the loveliest girl 
in the land. Hei'must work; death would not come to 
him; he had sought it, and inaction wearied him. He de- 
termined to face life once more, and make the best of it. 

He loved his art even in the midst of his despair; he 
seldom passed a garden without stopping to look at the 


158 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


arrangement of the flowers; in the hours of his deepest dis- 
tress the color of a wild rose, the flush on a leaf, would at- 
tract him. He said to himself that he would take to it 
again. Sir Arthur Mason was advertising for a head gar- 
dener, and Owen wrote to Lord Cardin asking him if he 
would send him testimonials, but not in the name he had 
borne, not as Owen Eoden; he called himself Mitchel, and 
Lord Cardin was only too pleased. From Sir Arthur 
Mason ^s he went at once to Lord Ulverston^s without the 
least notion of where he was going. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

FATHER AND SON. 

Mr. Mitchel took his place among the employes of 
Lord Ulverston; he was looked upon with great respect. 
Lord Ulverston spoke highly of his talents, and said how 
he wished him to be obeyed and respected. The mere ex- 
pression of his wish was law to every one on his estate, and 
Owen found himself treated with the greatest consideration. 
He himself had rooms in the cottage belonging to the 
woman who took charge of the lodge gates. It was just on 
the outside of the park, quiet and beautiful; he enjoyed the 
fresh air and the sweet-smelling flowers, he was pleased to 
be at work again, and put the whole force and strength of 
his heart and soul into his work. People became accustomed 
to him: every one liked him, he was silent and grave, yet 
there was something so gentle and sweet in his manner that 
all loved him. It seemed so strange that he, this tall strong 
man, had the art and charm even to tame the wild birds; 
the brown hares leaped, regardless of him, in the woods; 
they did not seem to take fright at the sight of the many’s 
white face; the squirrels jumped from the trees, and did 
not scream with fright at him. 

The people about the park soon became accustomed to 
the tall, strong figure and the sad, half stern, half sweet 
face. He did not make many friends. The men soon be- 
came accustomed to his silent, grave manner; they respected 
him, but there was not one among them who did not 
understand that he had a secret in his life — a secret that 
had made him old in his youth. 

They noticed that die never went where he would be likely 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


159 


to meet any of the fair sex — he never seemed to take the 
least notice of them; no one ever saw him stop to speak to 
any of the rosy-faced dairy-maids, or to any the pretty 
maids at the Hall; they came and went, they passed and 
repassed liim with shy coy looks; he never even saw them; 
they sent him pretty, messages; he never seemed to hear 
them; but he worked, no man ever worked so hard; he 
seemed to have no other pleasure; from the early morn un- 
til late at night he worked without cessation. Lord Ulver- 
'Ston soon became more than pleased — Owen had such grand 
taste, the combination of colors, the arrangement of plants 
— no one could equal him. He spoke everywhere of his 
clever gardener. 

And in the meantime the solitary man made one friend, 
one man seemed to have an attraction for him; it was Chil- 
tern, the head gamekeeper, a stalwart, honest man, who 
was struck with admiration at Owen^s talent. The two 
were friends; they did not talk very much together, but 
each felt that the other was reliable, might be trusted to 
the very death. Chiltern had often invited Owen to his 
home. 

‘‘ I have a dear little wife and a pretty little house, 
he would say: come and see me, Mr. Mitchel, you 

must be very lonely; come on Sunday and take dinner with 
us; come when you will. My wife is the kindest of women, 
she will make you so welcome — she will be so pleased to see 
you."" 

He wondered why this chosen friend of his leisure hours 
turned from him with a sigh on his pale lips. His 
thoughts had flown ’in one moment to that little home of 
his where his beautiful young wife had reigned like a queen. 
Chiltern might well wonder at the groan that came from 
his lips. 

I can not visit you,"" he said abruptly: I think the 
sight of a home would destroy me,"" and for some weeks no 
more was said about it; but the time came when Chiltern, 
through an injury to his arm, was quite unable to leave 
the house, and from sheer good nature Mr. Mitchel went 
to see him. 

The keeper"s house was a pretty, comfortable place, the 
wife a bonny, fair-haired woman, with, one of those warm, 
kind, motherly hearts, that reflect brightness on all; around 
them were several pretty fair-haired children. 


160 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


At first Owen passed them by and took no notice of them; 
then one by one, the little ones crept up to his side, one by 
one the little fair-haired heads clustered round him, and the 
little voices prattled to him of treasures in the woods and 
the fields. 

There was a quiver of pain on his face as he listened; 
then that passed, and he had learned to look at a child, to 
listen to a woman^s voice, to endure the love, and peace, 
and happiness of home, when another incident occurred. 

It was one evening in August, and Owen had taken a 
basket of fruits to the sick man, who was rapidly regaining 
health and strength. Ohiltern was sitting up outside the 
cottage door, under the shade of the great alder trees, his 
wife sitting near him, busy with her work, the children 
playing round her. A beautiful home picture that never 
faded from his eyes. One by one he took the children in 
his arms, kissed them gravely, and set them down again. 
There was Tom, the curly-headed rogue, who was at once 
the greatest torment and the . greatest pleasure; Mollis, a 
pretty blue-eyed child, and Madge, a grand little brunette; 
but now from between the trees another child came, and 
from the moment his eyes rested upon him until the mo- 
ment he died, Owen lioden was never again the same man. 

This was a handsome boy, about seven years old, dressed 
in black velvet—a boy who looked as though he had just 
stepped out of some picture-frame. He had a beautiful 
face, dark eyes, and a strong, gallant figure— a boy to win 
any one^s heart from the first glance at his bonny face. 
He came from the great group of trees, crying out for his 
friend and playfellow, Tom. ^ 

Owen could not tell why, he did not understand his own 
sensations, he could not analyze his own feelings; the fiist 
look at the child^s face seemed to strike through his whole 
being. 

Ah,"^ said Ohiltern; here is John. You have never 
seen him, Mr. Mitchel.^^ 

The strong figure trembled, a quiver of pain passed over 
the pale face ; yet why? How foolish. Why did the child "s 
face strike him with terror that was half joy, pleasure that 
was half pain — why was it? 

The child came up to him with outstretched hands. 

“ How do you do?^^ he said. ‘‘ I have seen you very 
often, but you have not spoken to me.^^ 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


IGl 


Dear Heaven what was there in this child sweet, shrill 
voice “that made him fall back white and trembling, that 
stirred his heart with a music long still, that sent the blood 
like molten lire through his veins, that brought a cry to 
his lips, that gave him a shock like that of an earthquake, 
what was it? A child ^s shrill, sweet voice, with a tone in 
it that was familiar to him. Yet what folly. 

‘^Am I going mad?^^ he thought to himself. She 
haunts me sleeping or waking. I see her face in the morn- 
ing heavens, in the evening skies, in every flower, in every 
moment; but if her eyes are to look at me out of a chiid^s 
face, if her voice is to speak to me from a child ^s lips, then 
I am mad.^^ 

Then Owen clasped the little hand in his. What could 
it mean, that strange trembling which seized him? It was 
but the touch of a child ^s hand. The dark, laughing eyes 
looked fearless in his face. 

I saw you feeding a squirrel in the Home Wood yes- 
terday/^ he said, but you did not see me.^^ 

‘‘ No,^^ said Owen, hoarsely, I did not see you; that is 
true.^^ 

Something of the sadness in his face and his voice seemed 
to attract the child; he looked at him more attentively. 

People say you have had a great trouble,^ ^ he said, 

is it true?^^ 

“ Hush, John; run away and play,^^ said Chiltern. 
'Then, turning to Owen, with an air of apology, the 
keeper added : 

“ You must not notice him, Mr. Mitchel; he means no 
harm. All the children about here have talked nonsense 
about you. Runaway, John.^^ 

No,’^ said Owen. ‘‘ Let him stay with me; he must 
not go away. 

H.8 asked the child some simple questions and Johnnie 
answered them proudly, his bright, fearless eyes fixed on 
Owen^s face. 

‘‘ I think, said poor Owen, slowly, that I have seen a 
boy just like you in my dreams. 

“ Dreams, cried the child. have dreams, I like 
dreams. 

I hope, my little boy, you will never have dreams like 
mine,” said Owen, gently. Yes, I have seen you in my 
dreams, I have seen your eyes, and they have looked at me 


1(32 A NAMELESS SIN. 

just as they do now, under your bonny curls. I^know 
you now, yet I can not tell how. 

‘‘ It is strange,'^ said the keeper, how the likeness in a 
face strikes us. I see one sometimes, and it makes me 
wonder. 

Owen was looking thoughtfully over the tall trees^ he 
turned to his friend. 

‘‘ Did you hear what that child said?^"' he asked. ‘‘ Is it 
true that people talk of me in that fashion?'" 

Chiltern looked round uneasily; like many other very 
good men, he was quite devoid of all presence of mind. 
When a difficult question was asked, he generally looked 
round to his wife, and so mutely appealed to her; he did so 
now, and the kindly woman laid her knitting needles on 
the table, and looked Owen fully and frankly in the face. 

Man was not made to live alone, Mr. Mitchel," she 
said, “ and you are too lonely. People say no harm of you, 
but it does startle one to meet you, at all hours of the even- 
ing, walking alone, with your eyes glancing about you, 
and as though every moment you expect to see the shadow 
of some ghost or other." 

Owen smiled; the kindly face pleased him. 

If they say no worse of me, Mrs. Chiltern, I am con- 
tent; that will not hurt me," he said. 

Why not cheer up and make yourself more sociable, 
Mr. Mitchel? There are many pretty girls here—" 

But she started back in affright when Owen raised his 
hands hastily. 

“ Hush," he cried. “ I am grateful to you for your in- 
terest in me, but never speak to me of such things. " 

I mean no harm," she said. At least you might 
come to see us sometimes. " 

That I will do," he answered her. How is it, Mrs. 
Chiltern, I never saw that little boy of yours, Johnnie, be- 
fore?" 

‘‘ He is not my little boy: I take care of him; he lives with 
us, but is no relation; he is a nice child. And now, Mr. 
Mitchel, I must say good-night, it is time my husband 
came in-doors. Good-night, and thank you for your kind- 
ness. Come and see us as often as you can." 

And Owen went slowly away. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


163 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

AN ACHING HEART WARMED WITH LOVE. 

I AM going mad/^ said Owen to himself, as he walked 
home that niglit. There is no help for it; my troubles 
have driven me mad. Why should Laurels eyes look at me 
out of that child ^s face? Why should her voice sound out 
of those lips? I am going mad. My lord will have to 
finish his beautiful gardens as he will; there is no more 
work for me. ^ 

He threw his arms up in the air; he raised his cap from 
his head; he cried in the most frantic excitement; then 
stood quite still. It was a strange kind of madness. He 
laid his fingers on his wrist; he felt the beating at his tem- 
ples; there was no physical sign of madness. He tried to 
test his memory, his mental powers — they were all right; 
there seemed to be no madness in his brain. 

‘‘ I must see that child again,' ^ he said to himself. I 
must examine his face, look into the eyes that frighten me 
so; see what it is that haunts me; see if I am going mad, 
or if I am sane.^^ 

He could not sleep that night; he kept saying to himself 
that he had seen Laurels eyes; asking himself if Heaven 
had ever made two pairs of eyes so exactly alike before. 

• He would take the child somewhere quite alone, talk to 
him, look at him, study him. 

All night he paced restlessly to and fro, all day he was 
divided between an intense desire to go and look for the 
boy and an intense longing to do his duty. 

Evening came. He had watched the hours, thinking 
they would never pass. Now the men left ofl: work, the 
sun was near setting; he could go with a clear conscience, 
his day^s work was done. 

Mrs. Chiltern looked up with some little surprise when 
she saw him there again so soon; her face beamed with 
kindness. She thought he had taken her advice and was 
going to live on more sociable terms with his neighbors. 

‘‘ Mrs. Chiltern, he said, where is Johnnie? May I 
take him for a ramble through the woods? I will take good 
care of him. '^ 


164 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


That indeed you may, Mr. Mitcliel; and I will not say 
but that I am glad. He will be safe and out of mischief; 
he has the spirit of twenty boys all rolled into one.'^^ 

To herself the kindly woman said that, even if he only 
grew interested in a child, it would be better than nothing. 
8o Johnnie was called, and after a vigorous struggle his 
face was washed. 

As for his curls, Mr. Mitchel,^^ said the much tired 
woman, ‘Mt is impossible, sir, quite— he never will stand 
still while they are brushed out— never. And — oh, dear, 
his hands. 

Never mind,^^ said Owen, “ he looks nice enough for 
anything. 

He was impatient to be alone with the child — he could 
hardly control himself. At last he held the little hand in 
his own, and they went away together. 

Where will you like to go best, Johnnie?^^ he asked. 

To the woods, cried the child. I like the trees and 
the squirrels; take me to the woods, Mr. Mifcchel.'''' 

So to the woods they went, and under the shelter of a 
great copper-beech tree, Owen sat down and took the child 
in his arms, 

I want to look in your face, Johnnie, he said, gently; 
‘‘ turn it to me.^^ 

The child obeyed him. He raised his head and looked 
quietly at Owen. 

‘‘ I am not frightened at you,^^ he said; ‘‘ Tom is. Tom 
says you never like anybody — I think you do. 

Owen made no answer, he was looking earnestly in the 
little face with a strange pain in his heart, a strange sensa- 
tion that he could neither account for nor describe. It 
seemed to him that it was his own face, yet at the same 
time it was Laurels— Laurels eyes, with their proud, clear 
brightness; Laurels brow, yet the face, the curls, the 
mouth were his own. Why, in the name of Heaven, should 
that child be like Laure and himself? It was so wonder- 
ful, yet but a freak of Dame Nature, who enjoyed freaks. 
He felt that he should never tire of looking at the child; 
it was as though some strange, mysterious force was pulling 
ever at his heart-strings — he loved the child; why, he knew 
not. 

Kiss me, Johnnie,^ ^ he said, and the boy rested his 
soft, warm lips on his father^s. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


1G5 


Ah! if they knew— if Oweiv could but have dreamed of 
it, could but have guessed it. But there was no voice to 
bid him gather the child to his heart, that he was his own. 
He struggled with the sure instinct of his nature without in 
the least knowing why. That kiss seemed the climax — ho 
held the little one to his breast as though he would never 
let him go. 

Talk to me, Johnnie,^ ^ he said; tell me what you do 
all day long.^^ 

And Johnnie entered into a very minute and eloquent 
detail of daily lessons, warfares, and pastimes, till the 
sweet, shrill, clear voice sent Owen almost mad again, it 
was so terribly familiar. In his own mind he compared it, 
as he had done another voice as sweet and clear, to the lilt 
of a bird. 

‘‘ Now tell me, Johnnie,^^ he said, ‘‘ about your home — 
your own home where you lived with your father and 
mother. 

This is my home,^^ said the boy, I live with Mrs. 
Chiltern. 

But,^^ said’ Owen, she is not your mother, not really. 

Pattie is my mother — no, she is not, my mother lives 
there, he answered, pointing with his hand to the blue 
skies; “ up there. Pattie told me so.'’^ 

Infinite pity touched Owen^s gentle heart. Was it pos- 
sible that this child, who by some strange freak of nature 
had Laurels eyes, should be motherless: he loved him the 
better for it, he clasped him more tightly in his arms. 

‘‘ Then you have no mother, Johnnie?^^ he said, gently. 

Oh, yes,^^ said the boy, I have a mother, but she 
lives there. 

Do you remember her?” he asked. 

‘‘No, I do not remember her. I never saw her, he 
answered. 

“ And your father, Johnnie; do you remember him?” 

“ My father?” said the boy. “ No, I do not know, I 
can not tell. My father — no one talks to me about him, 
he does not live in the skies— Pattie never said so.” 

If they had but known- — if the father could but have 
known that he held his own son in his arms — if the child 
could but have understood that the father he thought of 
and wondered about was there. ” 


166 


A NAMELESS STN. 


‘‘ Poor little child/^ said Owen, “ are yon alone in the 
worldr^^ 

“ Oh, no, not alone, he answered. 

‘‘ Have you any brothers, sisters, aunts, or uncles? 
asked Owen. 

“ Ho, none of those, bufc I have Pattie. 

Who is Pattie?^^ asked Owen. 

The child looked perplexed. 

‘‘She is Pattie. I do not know who she is.^^ 

“ Whom do you love best?^^ he asked again. 

“ I love Lady Ulverston best,^^ was the prompt reply. 
“ She is beautiful like an angel, she gives me money, and 
toys, and sweets; she kisses me. I lovelier best in the wide 
world. 

‘‘ Lady Ulverston ?^^ said Owen, slowly. 

He had never seen my lord^s wife; he only thought of 
her as of a person who did not love flowers. 

“ You are almost as lonely as I am, Johnnie. 

“ Are you lonely?'’^ said the boy. “ When I am a man 
I will not be lonely. 

“ I did not expect to be.^^ 

His hands lingered on the golden brown curls, his eyes 
on the handsome face. 

“ Child, he said, “ I wonder if God has sent you to 
me to comfort me? All these long years it has seemed to 
me that my heart was seared with hot iron, and now you 
have brought such sweet relief to me. For years my heart 
has been hard, cold and proud — bitter, frozen. You have 
brought warmth and fragrance back to it. Child/ will you 
love me?^^ 

And the eyes so hungry for love looked into his; the 
strong frame of the man trembled again with eagerness. 

The boy looked wonderingly at him. 

“ Do you want me to love you?^^ he asked. “ I am not 
afraid of you — yes, I will love you.^^ 

But he was almost frightened when Owen clasped himJn 
his arms again. 

Then he took the boy through the wood; he gathered 
flowers for him, caught a nimble squirrel, showed him the 
wonders of that lovely green world; but all the time he was 
haunted by the child^s face. What could it mean — this 
face like Laurels, yet like his? The likeness grew upon 
him. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


167 


‘‘ I must know more about the boy/^ he said to himself. 

If he is really alone in the world, I will adopt him.^" 

When Johnnie was tired, Owen took him home. He 
asked Mrs. Chiltern to leave her work for a time and talk 
to him. 

I am deeply interested in that boy/^ said Owen; I 
want you to tell me about him. You say that he is not 
your own. 

There is nothing like a child for softening one^s heart/' 
said kind Mrs. Chiltern. No, he is not my own, Mr. 
Mitchel, although I love him just as much as though ho 
were — " 

Would you mind telling me about him? Has he any 
friends living?" he asked. 

He has an aunt; it was his aunt who brought him here. 
She pays for him, and finds him in everything." 

‘‘An aunt," re-echoed Owen. He could not tell why, 
but he felt slightly disappointed; he did not know what he 
had hoped to hear; he hardly knew wjbat vague, foolish 
fancy filled his mind; what strange ideas hovered round 
him. “ Then you know nothing of his parents, Mrs. Chil- 
tern," he added. 

“No, only that Mrs. Clark told me they were both dead. 
I am not^quite sure, but I believe she said the child was 
born in France; when he first came here he used to speak, 
in his baby fashion, a few words of French. He has for- 
gotten them now. " 

Owen looked wistfully at her. 

“ Then there is really no secret about the child?" he 
said. 

Mrs. Chiltern seemed amazed. 

“ Secret!" she answered; “ no, Mr. Mitchel, there is no 
secret about him at all that I know of. " 

“ Who brought him to you?" he asked. 

“ I thought you knew, sir; I thought every one about 
here knew. The little boy was brought to me by Mrs. 
Clark — Pattie he calls her — Lady Ulverston's maid; he is 
her nephew, and she has adopted him. My lord often 
speaks to him. " 

“ Lady Ulverston is very kind to him, is she not?" asked 
Owen. 

“ I have never seen my lady speak to him that I remem- 
ber." 


168 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


Owen did not repeat the child^s words. If Lady TJlver- 
ston did not want her kindness to be known, he would not 
speak of it.^^ 

So he bade Mrs. Chiltern good evening, and went away 
still haunted by the boy^s face, but beginning now to be- 
lieve that he had been indulging in some strange fancy. 

He grew to love the cluld; he loved him with wonderful 
intensity and devotion; he was never happy away from him, 
and with his love grew an intense desire to adopt the boy, 
and make him his own. 


CHAPTEE XXXV. 

‘‘god help me! I FAILED.^^ 

A NEW life opened out to the solitary man. He had al- 
ways loved children so much. How, if he could adopt this 
child, he would have something to live for. He had loved 
all children; but now that he had found one like Laure, 
with the same wonderful, lustrous eyes, it was marvelous. 
To lose sight of that child would be, in a fashion, to lose 
sight of Laure over again — he could never part with him. 

If he might but adopt him, take him to his home, lavish 
all the wealth of his love on him, why, life would be all 
different; he would have something to work fo;r then; he 
should take an interest in his work, in earning money and 
winning fame. He loved the boy so dearly, the sound of 
his childish prattle was the sweetest music to him, the 
touch of his little hands could lead him anywhere. It was 
beautiful and pitiful to see the passionate love of the 
strong man for the little child — all his thoughts were en- 
grossed in him. 

And then the idea came to him that he would try to see 
this Mrs. Clark, and from her know all about the child; 
nothing but his love for the boy would have given him 
courage to address so formidable a person as a lady^s-maid. 
He had never seen Lady Ulverston; on all sides he had 
heard stories of her goodness and queenly generosity — of 
her pride, her beauty, her fashion; but he had never once 
felt the curiosity to see one of whom every one was speak- 
ing; it was quite sufficient for him that she did not like 
flowers. To his simple mind the maid was as formidable 
as the mistress; still for love of the boy, he would venture 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


169 


to* approach her; and Chiltern;, the keeper, who was able 
to go to work again, wondered when Owen asked him which 
was Mrs. Clark. 

He reflected a few minutes before he answered, with a 
profound wish that his wife was here to answer for him; 
then he said slowly he was not quite sure whether he could 
describe her. 

"" She is not really Mrs. Clark; she is only called Mrs. 
Clark by courtesy, he replied; she is young and un- 
married.^^ 

Unmarried repeated Owen, in dismay. 

This made matters more difficult. 

He found on cross-examining the gamekeeper, that 
Pattie was a blooming young woman, a brunette with 
bright eyes, dark hair, and a pretty face. She had also the 
peculiarity of always dressing in black. 

You can not fail to see her,^^ he added; “for she 
comes every Monday and every Friday to see the child; you 
can always see her at our house. 

Owen did not want to meet her before strangers; so he 
formed a little plan to himself that he would see her as she 
went to the cottage; that would be the most sensible. 

It was something new for Owen to gather a bouquet of 
flowers to give to any one; he said to himself it was for 
the boy^s sake; he would do anything for him — anything. 
He arranged the most beautiful and charming bouquet, a 
combination of colors that would have charmed an artist, 
and as Pattie crossed the wide glade of the woods, he stood 
there and presented it to her with a bow. Pattie looked 
up, astonished. 

“ Thank you,^^ she said, simply; “ how very beautiful!"^ 

Pattie, like every one else, knew Mr. Mitchel by sight. 
She had never spoken to him before, but was flattered by 
the superb bouquet, and believed that it was an act of 
homage to her .charms, so she entered into a very bright 
little conversation with him, and he walked some little dis- 
tance with her. 

He did not mention the child that evening, he thought it 
would not be good policy to break the ice at once. He 
bade her good-evening, and on Friday met her again. 

This time, Pattie, much flattered, met him with a blush 
and a smile. She admired the handsome, melancholy 
man, who had n^ver spoken to any other woman in the 


170 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


place but herself. Then he spoke of the subject near lijs 
heart — the child. He told her he had seen the boy, and 
how much he loved him. Pattie^s face beamed at the men- 
tion of his name. 

‘‘ He is a grand boy/^ she said, and he will make a 
grand man, if he lives. 

He has neither father, nor mother living, I hear,^^ said 
Owen. 

‘‘ 'No/’ was Pattie^s quiet answer; that is quite true.^^ 
Have they been dead longr^^ Owen asked. 

‘‘He never saw them; he has no recollection of them. 
His father died before he was born, his mother soon after. 
Then they were silent, and walked on for some time with- 
out saying another word. Owen spoke first. 

“ You must not think me intrusive, he said; “ but I 
am very fond of the child, and have views of my own re- 
specting him which I can not explain just now. Would 
you mind telling me his history? 

Pattie looked at him with \nde-open eyes. It was 
strange that he should be so persistent over the child; still, 
if he l^oved him very much, that was easily understood. 

“He has not much history, she replied; “ it is very 
simple. 

Then she paused and hesitated half a minute. She was 
natui'ally truthful, and did not like to tell the untruth 
she was compelled to tell about the child. 

“ No matter how simple the history may be,^^ he said, 
“ it will interest me."^^ 

“ There is really no history. The father of little John- 
nie was a Frenchman, who married my sister and died be- 
fore the child was born. My sister died soon after. I went 
to France to bring the little one home, and adopted him as 
my own.^^ 

“ You did a kind and wise thing, said Owen. 

“ I am more than repaid by the child himself,^^ she con- 
tinued. “I will tell you all about it; it -was before my 
lady^s marriage, and I naturally supposed that having the 
care of a little child I should have to leave my place, but 
my lady^s uncle was very kind; he said that she liked me 
and would be sorry to lose me, so he gave me permission to 
bring the child home, and find a nnrse for him on the 
estate. I did so, and then when my lady was married, 
she gave me permission to do tlie same thing. I brought 


A ISTAMELESS SIK. 


171 


the boy here, and he has remained with Mrs. Chiltern ever 
since. • 

Owen looked wistfully at her. After all, then, the child 
belonged to this maiden, the child for whom he longed so 
intensely. 

‘‘ The boy^s future, then, rests with you?^^ he said. 

Yes,^^ she replied, after a pause. It rests with me. 
Of course you understand that my mistress. Lady tJlver- 
ston, has been kind to the child, and has undertaken to 
provide for its ed ucation, so that I should have to consult 
her; I should not like to promise anything without that. 

‘‘ Certainly not; nor do 1 wish you to do so. What 
reason can I have for objecting?^^ 

I did not suppose that you had any reason, but I 
thought it better to tell you that the child does not depend 
on me alone. 

I am much pleased to hear anything that you may tell 
me, Mrs. Pattie, Now, let me give you my ideas about 
the boy. You will laugh, perhaps, when I tell you that I 
might have been a rich man if I had any one to care for 
me, if I had any one to love or take an interest in. I 
could not work or seek either riches or power for myself.-’^ 

Pattie looked up at him with a pretty, coquettish smile. 

‘‘ That is an evil soon remedied, she said. I do not 
think any one need be alone or unloved, if he wishes to be 
otherwise. 

And if Owen had taken the trouble to look at the hand- 
some face blooming so near him, he would have under- 
stood better than he did. 

‘‘ Did you every try,^^ continued Pattie, to make any 
one care for you? 

A vision of the beautiful face he had loved and lost came 
before him; he raised his sad, thoughtful eyes to hers, bid 
he did not see her. 

Yes, I tried once and failed,^^ he said. God help 
me! I failed. 

That is no reason why you should not try again, said 
Pattie, with a fresh dash of coquetry. 

He did not even understand her; his thoughts were back 
in that woodland home; and Pattie, sagely enough saying 
to hefself that this was not the time for flirtation, contin- 
ued: 


172 


A KAMELESS SIIST. 


‘^But what about the boy, Mr. Mitchel? You have 
not explained your views to me/^ • 

“ No,^^ he said; ‘‘we wander from the subject. As I 
was telling you, Mrs. Pattie, I might have been a rich 
man, if I had had one creature on earth to ^vork for. Ixan 
make money; Heaven was good enough to give me talent, 
and the use of it brings money. 

“ Why do you not make money for yourself she asked; 
“ and then when you grow older, you could live comforta- 
bly and without work.’^^ 

“ Pray Heaven, I shall not live to be old,^^ said Owen, 
with a long sigh. “ I am weary of my life now. Never 
say to me, Mrs. Pattie, that I shall live to be old; I have 
no wish, unless, indeed, you can give me the boy to cheer 
my old age. Mrs. Parae, let me adopt him; I will have 
him well educated— thoroughly well; I will work hard, I 
will make a comfortable home for him. I will have him 
brought up to some profession; I will use all the talents I 
have, and all the money I make shall be his; he shall have 
every advantage that is possible; he shall have a happy, 
good, and useful life if you will give him to me.^^ 

“ It is a grand offer,^^ said Mrs. Pattie, thoughtfully. 

She said to herself that if Lady Ulverston was wise she 
would accept it; then all trouble, all responsibility respect- 
ing the child would be at an end. For her own part, 
Pattie would have closed with it at once. 

“ I will not plead for myself,^ ^ continued Owen, “ or tell 
you how that child would turn death into life, night into 
day, for me; I am so great a stranger to happiness, that I 
have no right to expect any; but, oh, Mrs. Pattie, if I had 
that boy to make sunshine and happiness for me! It is not 
an unusual thing that I ask; people often adopt children. 

“ As far as I am concerned, Mr. Mitchel, said Pattie, 
“I give my consent; but I must ask my lady what she 
thinks. 

“You are very good, he said, gratefully; “you shall 
never repent the trust you place in me by giving me the 
child. 

Then Pattie did what she had long desired to do — read 
him a long lecture on the folly of living alone, and always 
being sad and lonely. 

“ No man,^^ she said, in her homely fashion, “ should 
think his life lost, because he has wanted one woman to- 


4 NAMELESS SIN. 


173 


love him, and she would not. There are many women in 
the world/^ she said, ‘‘ quite as fair and as lovable as the 
one you make yourself so wretched about. Try to love one 
you can have, instead of loving one who will not have 
you."" 

Very sensible words, but they did not touch Owen Koden. 


CHAPTER XXXVL 

A STARTLING COINCIDENCE. 

He had tried hard to believe that it was but a wretched 
fancy, to dismiss it from his mind, to say to himself that it 
was but a mad fancy, an accidental likeness; yet the third 
^y after this found him waiting for Pattie. He knew not 
what he had to say, nor what he expected to hear. 

Pattie began to feel more and more sure that he ad- 
mired her. She liked him; she had the sense to discern in 
him a superior character; she saw that he had talent, that 
he had genius; she admired his handsome face, his mel- 
ancholy even had a charm for her. Pattie in her busy life 
had neither time nor thought for love or lovers, but now the 
time had come when she opened her heart to the warm, 
genial influence of love. She was pleased and flattered to 
think that this man, whom every one thought and spoke so 
well of, who was known for his avoidance of all women, 
liked her; it was a grand compliment to pay her, one that 
both flattered and delighted her and made her like him. 

Have you come to any decision about the child?"" he 
asked. “ Have you thought over what I said about him?"" 

Yes, I have thought a great deal of it, but I have come 
to no decision. I do not like to decide on such a question 
without advice; I must consult my lord or my lady first."" 

“ My lord will say ‘ Yes," I am sure,"" she said; and my 
lady — well, what can she say about it? Does she really 
take any great interest in the child?"" 

Yes,"" answered Pattie; “ I may say that Lady Ulver- 
ston really likes him. She was very kind to him when he 
first came, and she has been kind to him ever since."" 

‘‘ She would be all the more likely, then, to approve 
what is for his benefit.’" 

She would do that, certainly,"" said the maid. I — I 

spoke. to her once about the child’s future, and she told me 


174 


A iq’AMELESS SIl^. 


that she would charge herself with his education and future; 
that is why I hardly like to speak to her about any other 
plan; it would seem as though I were dissatisfied with her 
intentions for him. I do not know what to do about it.^^ 
Owen looked very thoughtful. 

I do not quite see it in that way. If Lady U1 vers ton 
is really kind to the boy, and wishes for his advancement 
in life, she could not do anything better than to intrust 
him to me. I will make him a gentleman, and he — all, 
you do not know what he would be to me! I do not know 
Lady Ulverston, but it seems to me that no sensible person 
could object to my offer. 

Have you never seen Lady Ulverston asked Pattie, 
suddenly, looking at him. 

‘‘ No,^^ he replied; I have never seen her; how should 

ip,. 

You never come to the Hall? Ah, well! if you were 
to see her once, you would understand that I feel a great 
hesitation in speaking to her. She is very beautiful, 
one of the loveliest women in England, but proud and 
determined; if you looked in that beautiful face of hers, 
you would see that, having once made up her mind to a 
thing, she does not like to be thwarted. 

I must see her/^ he said. “ I think I could persuade 
her, although I may seem to fail with you.^^ 

Pattie looked up again hurriedly. 

“ You must not speak to her about this, at least until I 
have prepared her to bear it,^^ she said. 

Owen looked and felt surprised; it seemed to him that 
Lady Ulverston must be a very unreasonable person to re- 
quire any preparation for such a thing as this. 

I do not understand fine ladies, he said, laughingly; 
‘‘ but I must confess I can not see what preparation she 
will need — the child is nothing to her.'’^ 

‘^Nothing in the world, save she likes him and has 
taken a fancy to him.^^ 

‘‘ A fancy,^^ he repeated; mine is not a fancy. I love 
the child — love him, do you understand?’^ 

“ Yes, I quite understand; but why do you love him?” 

“ It is a strange thing, but he is exactly like some one 
whom I used to know and to love, a long time since. I 
never tire of looking in his face and listening to his voice. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


175 


I would make him so happy, Mrs. Clarke, if you woultl 
give him to me. 

I can not decide just yet; you must wait a lew days; 
one can not settle such a question hastily.''^ 

Then Pattie thought that enough had been said about 
the boy, and it was high time the conversation turned 
upon herself. He must admire her, or he would not be al- 
ways waylaying her, waiting for her, sending her flowers. 
She was quite prepared to like him; it was time^ he said 
something to her. She never dearmed that all his atten- 
tions to her were merely for the boy^s sake; that did not 
occur to her. Why, if he wanted the boy, why should he 
not take her as well? So she looked at him half-shyly, the 
blush deepening on her face. 

I can understand that you, being so lonely, Mr. Mitch- 
el, would like the child; it would give you an interest in 
lief; but why do you not marry, Mr. Mitchel?^^ 

In spite of himself, a smile curled Owen's lip, he could 

not help it. . t t 

That is the one question, Mrs. Pattie," he replied, 
to which I can find no answer; there is, in fact, no an- 
swer," and he smiled again. 

That smile, softening his face, made him handsomer than 
ever, and Pattie admired him still more. She did her best 
to try a little coquetry with him, but she might as well 
have tried flirtation by the side of an open grave. Still no 
thought of this came to her. She told him many little 
anecdotes as to the superiority of married life, to which 
Owen made no reply, and they parted as the sun set in the 
west, without dreaming of the tragedy that hung over 
them. 

The next evening Owen could not rest; he was there 
again, ready to meet Pattie as she crossed the path. This 
time she was not alone, she had the boy with her. Oweu's 
face brightened at the sight of him, and the boy bounded 
to meet him. Then Pattie wondered if it struck him what 
a happy party they would be, the three together. She 
looked anxiously in his face, but there she read that he 
had forgotten her, and was thinking only of the child. 

I am glad that I met you, Mr. Mibchel," said Pattie. 
Mrs. Chiltern sent Johnnie to see me, and I am obliged 
to take him home; yet I have not really the time to spare. 


176 


A Hq-AMELESS SIK. 


My lady is waiting for me to dress her. There is a dinner- 
party at the llall.''^ 

Shall I take the boy home for you, Mrs. Pattie?^^ asked 
Owen. I am going to the cottage. 

I shall be very gdad/^ said Pattie. If you are kind 
enough to take him for me, I may sit down just for a few 
minutes and rest. 

They sat all three together under the shade of the great 
green trees, listening to the boy^s careless prattle. 

I shall be a soldier when I grow up,^^ he said; “ I am 
going away to fight. And the two elder ones looked at 
each other, asking each other was that the boy’s real call- 
ing? 

Then, after a pleasant interview under the trees, Pattie 
went away — Owen, taking the child’s hand, led him home. 
They lingered on the way; Owen lay on the soft green 
grass, watching the white fleecy clouds above his head, 
while the boy played round him. 

Suddenly he looked at the brave little figure. 

So you mean to be a soldier?” he said. 

‘‘ Yes, and fight; I like fighting,” was the warlike an- 
swer. 

They will call you Captain Johnnie,” said Owen. 

‘‘ I have another name besides Johnnie,” said the boy, 
proudly. Pattie says that all gentlemen have two names 
at least.” 

Owen smiled. 

What is your other name?” he asked. 

The boy looked up with a pleased smile. 

My other name is Owen,” he answered; so that I 
shall be Captain John Owen when I am a soldier.” 

Owen Eoden’s face grew deadly white: he sprung up 
from the ground and caught the child in his arms. 

That is your name?” he cried. ‘‘ Tell me that 
again.” 

^^Owen,” said the boy, ^^John Owen. I like Owen 
best, but Pattie said I must be called John.” 

Still he held the child tightly clasped, looking with 
wondering eyes in the little face. 

‘^1 am frightened, and you hurt me,” said the boy. 

Let me go.” Owen loosened his clasp. 

• ' So your name is Owen? My God!” he cried, with 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


177 


sudden passion, what can it mean? — this child with 
Laurels face and my name. What can it mean?^’ 

He was bewildered — the coincidence was so great, he 
could not understand or realize it. It was like a shock to 
him. “Owen."’-' Yet need he wonder so much? Owen 
was a common name — he was not the only one in the world 
who bore'it. Perhaps the boy's father was Owen — yet no; 
it was not the name for a Frenchman. He would ask 
Pattie when he saw her again how the boy came with that 
name. 

It is more than a coincidence," he said; ‘‘ it seems to 
me a sign from Heaven that I am to take the boy and 
make him my own. Heaven has sent him to me, and no 
one shall take from me my good gift. I will see this proud 
Lady Ulverston, and I will plead to her with such passion 
that she shall not refuse me; she must listen to me. I will 
be heard; Heaven meant it to be so!" 

To his simple mind the matter was clear and de- 
cided. Heaven must have willed it. He had lost his 
home, his money, his chance of winning fame; he had lost 
his hope, his love, his wife; but if Heaven would give him 
this boy, he would be content, for then his longing heart 
would have something to satisfy itself on; he would have 
soemthing to love. 

When he led the child to Mrs. Ohiltern, he said to her: 

I did not know the little one was called Owen as well 
as John." 

No one ever uses the name; I have never heard it," 
said Mrs. Ohiltern. ‘‘ It is an outlandish kind of name, to 
my thinking. " 

Some instinct prevented Owen from saying that it was 
his own name; but as he walked to his solitary lodgings, 
thought much about it — that the little fellow he was learn- 
ing to love should be called Owen. 

If I had a son of my own, I would have called him by 
my own name," he said, and no other.'* 

Then in his own mind he planned how he should see 
Lady Ulverston, and persuade her to let him adopt the 
child. 

That was a brilliant evening in August, the lustrous 
stars were shining overhead, the night wind was heavy with 
the breath of sweet dowers, and no warning came to him 
of wliat would happen before the month was ended. 


178 


A KAMELESiS SIK. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 

LADY ULVEESTON ALARMED. 

Lady IIlverston sat in tlie drawing-room, not alone, 
for the little fairy Lily was, as usual, near her. The after- 
noon was very warm, but my lady looked the picture of 
cool, sweet, fragrant repose. The windows were all open, 
and the sun-blinds drawn, so that the lovely, rosy, mellow 
light was neither &o brilliant nor too strong. The room 
itself was like a dream of beauty, with its pictures, its bnhl 
and marquetry, the thousand and one marvels of art that 
were scattered over it, the fragrant flowers that perfumed 
it, the scented fountains from which the spray rose and fell 
with a silvery murmur; through the open windows the per- 
fumed air came in, and the music of the birds floated in 
softly, like the sweet, soft music of a dream. 

By far the most beautiful object in that room was the 
beautiful lady who lay, with a book in her hands, on the 
couch. 

Lady Ulverston had grown more beautiful with the 
years; her magnificent figure and patrician face more peer- 
less; the gold had deepened in her hair, but the dainty 
bloom on her face was as when she had stood, years ago, 
with the one temptation of her life before her. She was 
superbly beautiful, and her life was bright, happy, and 
pleasant as the dream of a poet. She had succeeded in liv- 
ing down her most bitter remorse and her sharpest paiti. 
She was learning to forget; the one dark shadow of her life 
was fading rapidly away. The world had flattered and 
courted her, it had lain at her feet, it had crowned her 
queen of beauty and grace; that in reaching her throne she 
had trampled on a man^s honest heart was nothing to her. 
She had learned to love her husband and desire his esteem; 
she fully appreciated his whole character; she fully appre- 
ciated her own position; she enjoyed the advantages of her 
wealth, rank, and station. Why should she distress herself 
by looking back on a past that was like no other past in the 
world? 

There was no shadow on her beautiful face now, in the 
depths of her eyes no sign of sorrow; she looked a brilliant. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


179 


beautiful, prosperous woman. Every now pd then she 
laid aside her book and watched the little Lilyj 9 <nd then 
the love that softened her face made her marvelous to see. 

When Lord Ulverston opened the door and entered the 
room he laughed aloud at the pretty picture of indolent 
happiness. He sat down by Lady Laiire’s side. 

I have jost heard something that amuses me, he said. 

“ You will lose your lady's-maid if you do not mind, 
Laure.^^ 

“Lose Pattie,”she cried. “No, Rudolph, I am not 

afraid of that." . , « 01 i, 

“ I should not be surprised," he continued. bhe has 

found an admirer.^’ 

“ She has had many," said Lady Laure; “ but she will 

never leave me. " , • , . . • • 

“ This will be an exception. I really think Pattie is a 
fortunate person to have attracted such a man." 

“ You forget that you have not told me who Pattie's ad- 
mirer is,” said Lady Laure. 

“ Why, Mitchel, the man who is superintending the 
alterations; and I assure you that there is not a more clever 
man, in his way, in England. If Pattie marries him she 

will do well." , . T .1 T 

“ Has he asked Pattie to marry him.'' said Lady Laure. 

“ I must confess that, I am looking ahead," said Lord 
Ulverston; “ but this Mitchel has been quite celebrated 
for his avoidance of the fair sex; and now every one is 
much amused at finding that Pattie’s dark eyes have won 
him. 

“ Have they won him?" asked my lady, negligently. 

“ We must imagine so; he sends her flowers; he waits 
for her in the park and in the woods. Why, Laure, R 
there is anything in it, you will be quite lost without her. 

“ I will not waste one moment in regret until I know 
whether the story is true or not. I think if there had been 
anything in it, Pattie would have told me." 

Still, though she laughed and seemed perfectly mdifler- 
ent, she was perplexed and distressed. If Pattie did ever- 
leave her, how should she manage over her boy? Would 
Pattie take him or leave him? She could not bear him 
away from her, that was quite certain; she could not lose 
sight of him. Yet it was not her habit to fatigue herself 


180 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


over possibilities; there would be time enough to make her- 
self wretched when Pattie told her. 

Night came; mistress and maid were together in my 
lady’s chamber, and still Pattie had said nothing. Lady 
Laure was silent purposely, so as to give her the chance; 
then finding she took no advantage of it, she began the 
subject herself. 

‘‘ Pattie,” she asked, kindly, ‘‘ is this story that I hear 
about you true? Have you found an admirer here at 
Ulvers?” 

“ Has some one told you that story?” she asked. 

Yes, I have heard some rumor of it. Is it true, Pat- 
tie?” 

But to her surprise Pattie seemed mow) distressed than 
embarrassed. 

‘‘ My lady,” she said, slowly, ‘‘ I have been wanting to 
tell you something for a long time. You have heard Lord 
Ulversfcon speak, without doubt, of Mr. Mitchel, the — the 
person who is superintending the alterations.” 

Yes,” was the careless reply, I have heard of him.” 

Pattie looked at the beautiful face of her mistress, then 
continued : 

“ It is a very strange thing; but he has taken the great- 
est possible liking to little Johnnie.” 

Then Lady Ulverston looked up suddenly, and the ex- 
2 iression of her face was quite changed. 

“To little Johnnie,” she repeated. “Mitchel has 
taken a fancy to him?” 

“ I do wrong even to call it a fancy,” said Pattie, “ it is 
more than that; he loves the child.” 

“ Loves him,” cried Lady Ulverston, “ why does ho love 
him?” 

“ I asked him that very question, my lady, and he told 
me that it was because the child was so very much like 
some one whom he had lov5d. ” 

“ He must be a presuming kind of a man,” said Lady 
Laure, indignantly. 

“ No, he is not that; he is a clever man and all the peo- 
ple here say he might be rich if he cared to save his money. 
You can not think how he loves the boy.” 

My lady’s face changed again; something of fear and dis^ 
tress moved its bright expression. 

“ You say that he has known some one like Johnnie— 


A KAMELESS 181 

whom is he like, Pattie? I have not remarked any great 
likeness to any one/^ 

He is more like you than any one else/^ was Pattie^s 
grave answer. 

My lady went up to her and grasped her arm. 

Do you think that it is any one that knew me.^"’ she 
gasped, in terrified tones. 

No; I am quite sure not,^^ was the quick reply. “ No 
one who knew you in those days would recognize you now; 
it is not in the least likely. It is not that; he fancies he 
sees a likeness to some one in the child^sface; but that 
may be and is pure imagination. I do not think it worth 
a moment^s thought. He loves the boy so well because he 
has nothing else to love. 

I thought: he cared for you, Pattie, said Lady Laure, 
quickly. 

He has not spoken to me of myself yet, my lady; he 
will do so without doubt. At present he has talked to me 
of nothing but the boy.''^ 

What of him, Pattie?'" she asked, in a constrained 
voice. 

“ I will tell you, my lady; he loves him. He tells me 
that in his life he has*' had great trouble, terrible sorrow; 
and in the love of this child he could forget them all." 

‘‘ How strange," said Lady Laure. 

He seems to have a good position," said Pattie. He 
says that he can make plenty of mone}^, and he wants to 
adopt the boy." 

Lady Laure could only repeat the words. 

Adopt him — how strange." 

He thinks, of course, my lady, that the boy belongs to 
me; and he promises to bring him up as a gentleman, to 
educate him, to do everytliing in the world for him, if I 
will only give my consent to his adopting him. He is 
never tired of tryirig to persuade me; he said yesterday if 
it would please me he would live here always." 

Lady Laure's face brightened as she looked up with a 
smile. 

That sounds to me, Pattie, more as though he wanted 
to marry you than to adopt the child." 

‘‘ I do not think so, my lady; he is very earnest about it; 
he said he would try to see you about it." 

Why see me?" she asked, in a voice of alarm. Sure- 


182 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


ly you have not said that 1 have any special interest in the 
boy.^^ 

I have kept the secret too long and too faithfully to 
betray it now/^ said Pat tie, quietly. I told him that I 

could not decide about accepting his offer without consult- 
ing you, as you had promised to send the boy to scliqpl; 
and it would seem as though I had slighted your offer. He 
understood that, and said that he would speak to you him- 
self. He does indeed love the boy, my lady; his face 
brightens when he sees him. It is quite natural, too, that 
a lonely man should long for something to love. 

Lonely men marry, as a rule, Pattie; they do not go 
about the world adopting children. 

I asked him why he did not marry, and he said it was 
one of the questions that he could not answer. 

It seems very strange,^^ said Lady Laure, musingly. 
‘‘ I have not seen him yet, Pattie, this Mr. Mitchel. What 
is he like?^^ 

Tiie maid^s face grew bright and rosy as she tried to de- 
scribe him. He was tall, handsome, strong, but always 
melancholy; he was clever; she had heard that Lord Ulver- 
ston said that his talents amounted to genius. The best 
way to settle it is to see him for yourself, my lady/^ con- 
tinued Pattie; ‘‘you can speak with an air of authority; 
you either accept or refuse — my words have no weight with 
him. ^ ^ 

“ I am quite willing to see him,^^ said Lady Laure, “ in- 
deed I am anxious to do so; it is so wonderful for one quite 
a stranger to us to take such an interest in the boy, that I 
am curious to see him; but, Pattie, he can not have the 
child/ ^ 

“ I did not expect you would like to part with him, my 
lady,^^ said the maid. 

“ Part with him!^^ she cried. “ I would give my heart’s 
blood sooner than give him up!” 

“ Then you will tell Mr. Mitchel that you have under- 
taken the charge of his future, and do not feel inclined to 
give it up?” 

“ Something of that kind,” says my lady, languidly. 
“ When is he coming, Pattie?” 

“ To-morrow evening, my lady. Lord Ulverston will 
be away; and I thought if he came then you would be able 
to speak to him at your leisure.” 


A HAMELESS SIN. 


183 


‘‘ That will do/^ said Lady Ulverston. I had forgot- 
ten that Lord Ulverston dines at Langdon Court; then I 
shall see what this admirer of yours is like, Pattie/^ 

After which she dismissed the whole matter from her 
mind. 


CHAPTER XXXVIIL 

THE WOMAN THAT BETKAYED HIM. 

Such a beautiful August day and Owen Roden knows that 
this evening he is to see the mistress of Ulvers, Lady Ulver- 
ston, the peerless and beautiful, who does not like flowers. 
He did not think much about her, but he thought a great 
deal as to what words he should use in pleading for the boy; 
he did not think he should have much difficulty. What 
did this fashionable, beautiful Lady Ulverston care for the 
little orphan? 

When I can show her,P he thought, all the benefits 
I can confer upon him, she will be quite willing to save 
herself the expense and trouble. 

The only fine lady he had ever known— of whom he had 
had the least experience — was Lady Cardin, and he knew 
that she was always most particular as to the appearance 
of people; so for the first time in many years poor, simple, 
honest Owen looked in the glass with some little interest, 
and took some pains to look well. It was a good, hand- 
some, loving face, but terribly marked and lined with 
trouble. 

Pat tie sent a little note to say that Lady Ulverston would 
see Mr. Mitchel in the evening; and she advised him to be 
at the Hall by eight o^ clock. 

When Lord Ulverston was from home my lady never 
troubled herself about a long, toilsome state dinner; she 
dined earlier and without ceremony — she did so on this 
day. So it happened that, going home in the afternoon 
after a ramble in the park, for the first time Owen Roden 
saw her. 

He had been measuring some trees; they wanted remov- 
ing to open out space where a fernery was to be made. ^ He 
had measured them, and he stood in the golden sunlight 
quietly planning what he should do. He did not see her 
just at first, nor did she pass very near him. Suddenly 


184 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


raising his eyes he saw her crossing the glade lower down; 
saw a niagnificently beautiful woman, superbly dressed, • 
walking with a free, grand, royal grace, her glorious face 
unveiled and turned in his direction; saw her, and caught 
his breath with a low cry, clutched the branch of a tree 
lest he should fall, looked until it seemed that he could 
see no more. 

For he had recognized her — he knew her. Time had 
deepened her beauty, heightened her loveliness, changed 
her from a beautiful girl into a magnificent woman; still 
he knew her. He had looked into those eyes, he had kissed 
those lips, that beautiful head had rested on his breast — it 
was Laure, his wife. 

He wondered afterward that he did not die in that min- 
ute: the rush of mighty seas was in his ears, a great mist 
came before his eyes; a great tearless sob came from his 
lips. 

Great Heaven, he cried, I am mad— it can not be 
Laure 

It was well she did not see the white, wild, tortured face. 
The color had all left it; the lips were white as those of a 
dead man; his burning eyes followed every motion of that 
beautiful, graceful figure. 

She stood for a few minutes watching a pretty bird that 
sat singing on the low branch of a tree; she smiled as she 
listened, and he knew that smile so well; he had watched 
it so often deepen as it went from the eyes to the- lips. 
Then she walked on slowly, still smiling. 

The earth did not open, the skies did not fall, yet neither 
would have startled him so much. He had dreamed of 
seeing her again, he had thought of a thousand plans by 
which he might see her; and now she was standing before 
him with the sunlight on her face, and he was stricken 
dumb. He had opened his white, stiff lips to cry out her 
name, but no sound came from them; he tried to follow 
her, he could not move; he tried to attract her attention, 
but it seemed to him that his limbs were paralyzed. 

‘‘ Oh, Heaven, could that be Laure, Ms beautiful, lov- 
ing Laure? 

He watched her as she passed down the woodland glade; 
then, without cry or sound, he fell on his face like a dead 
man, and so he lay until one of the laborers passing by 


A NAMELESS SIN. 185 

saw him, and thinking he was ill raised him. Owen 
looked at the man. 

“ Did you see a lady pass down there some time since 
he asked; a lady dressed in pink and gi’ay.'’^ 

Yes, I have seen her; you mean Lady Ulverston,^^ he 
answered. 

Lady Ulverston. 

So that was the end of it! Laure was Lady Ulverston; 
she had left him, only Heaven knew how or why, and she 
had married the man who was now his master. 

“ Lady Ulverston,^ ^ he repeated the name over and over 
again to himself; he was stunned as a man who had been 
wounded and left for dead. Laure was Lady Ulverston. 
She had left him, his true love, his pretty, simple home 
for this. She who had been mistress of that little cottage 
was now mistress of this lordly place. The man who had 
raised him looked at him in bewilderment. 

I have been ill?^^ said Owen to him. 

He nodded in reply, and went on, leaving him alone. 

He flung himself on the soft, thick grass, praying with 
passionate tears and passionate prayers that he might die, 
that God, in His mercy, would save him from more tort- 
ure, would keep him from going mad with the weight of 
his own despair. 

So that was Laure. While in his own fashion he had 
sought her the wide country through, she had been here, 
mistress of this magnificent domain. How had it come to 
pass? How had she, his wife, poor and unknown — by 
what means had she become Lady Ulverston? 

Then, with a loud cry he rose, wrath and anger surging 
in him. He had been so cruelly, so basely betrayed. He 
was not a gentleman; his hands were brown with toil, his 
face bronzed by the sun, but he could feel intensely, sensi- 
tively, as any other man. He would tear her from this 
white-handed aristocrat — he would force her to go back 
with him; she was his own, his wife. 

Then his eyes fell on the greensward where she had 
stood, and the memory of the beautiful face flashed over 
him like a light. He rushed to the spot, and falling on 
his knees kissed it because she had stood there. His own 
words came back to him with wonderful strength; he re- 
membered how she had stood looking at him, and had 
asked him, What should you do, Owen, if 1 ran away 


186 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


from you?^’ And he had answered, I should follow you 
and die humbly at your feet;^^ words that had little mean- 
ing in them when he uttered them, but which were now so 
full of life. He remembered that he had to see her that 
evening — this wife of his, whom he had lost for so long. It 
showed the state of his mind; he did not remember why he 
had to see her. He had forgotten all about the boy; he 
was mad with the most terrible of all madness — wounded 
love and burning jealousy. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

LAURE, DO YOU KNOW ME?^^ 

He had found her at last. His love, his anger, his 
madness found vent in a bitter cry that drove the startled 
song-birds from the trees; it startled even himself. 

‘‘ Xay,"^ he said to himself; if I am to see her I must 
keep my senses. I must not go mad. I must collect all 
my thoughts. I must be myself. 

He walked slowly through the park; the astonished look 
of one of the keepers who met him startled him again. 

‘‘ Excuse me, Mr. Mitchel,"" said the man, you look 
so worn, so haggard. Have you been ill? Have you fallen? 
Your coat is all over grass and leaves. 

Owen looked at him abruptly. 

Am I presentable?^^ he said. 

‘‘Xo, that you are not,'"' laughed the man, ‘‘you 
frighten me.^^ 

§0 he must go home again, after all his care, and re- 
make his toilet, ready to meet his wife. 

He never knew how he reached his lodgings. All the 
way he saw Laurels face before him; the sunlight, the rosy 
clouds in the west, the flowers, the trees were nothing; 
they had no existence for him; all he thought of was Laure. 
He had seen her again, and the sight of her had driven 
him mad. 

He brushed the stains from his coat; he washed his 
hands, all covered with dust; he made himself look as well 
as he could, laughing a mad, bitter laugh to himself as he 
remembered how often she had stood by laughing while he 
had made himself presentable to go out with her. 

When he started for the Hall it was nearly twilight, and 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


187 


the lovely night was coming on. The siin had set, the air 
was full of fragrance, the birds were singing their vesper 
iiymn, the whole world lay, sweet, smiling and fragrant. 

He was going to see his wife, his beautiful young wife 
who had betrayed him years ago; he was going to speak to 
the woman who had betrayed him, left him, abandoned 
and dishonored him; he laughed aloud in the bitterness of 
his heart, in the keen, bitter pain. 

‘‘ My wife is a grand lady, and a false woman; yet I 
have never said one word against her, and I never will. 
8he may have grown tired of my poverty; she was so 
bright and gladsome. It was a dull life for her; but may 
God bless her. I will never say one word more harsh than 
that.^^ 

He formed no plan as he went along; he never said to 
himself what he should say, what he should do; he was be- 
wildered; only one idea came to him; he was going to see 
his wife — his wife! 

Laure,^^ he cried, with a passion of tears. Even to 
utter her name seemed to him, after all these years of 
silence, so sweet. Then the grand picturesque hall of 
Ulvers came in sight; and once more he wondered how his 
darling came to all these splendors. Could he be mis- 
taken? After all, was it Laure? Had he been deceived? 
He should soon know now, for he was standing in the 
grand entrance-hall. 

Pattie came to him, blushing and smiling, coy and shy; 
but Owen, in the great tragedy of his sorrow, never even 
saw her— did not know whose eyes were looking into his, 
whose voice was speaking to him in such dulcet tones. 

My lady will see you, Mr. Mitchel,^^ she said. Will 
you walk this way?’^ 

Mechanically he followed her through the magnificent 
suite of rooms, through the broad, grand corridors, past 
the pictures and statues of world- wide fame, past jardinieres 
filled with the most costly flowers. He looked around him 
in wonder. And it was for this she had betrayed his true 
heart and his honest love! 

He does not look either very happy or very pleased, 
said Pattie to herself, as she ushered him into the boudoir 
where Lady Ulverston had bade her ask him to wait for 
her. 

Owen entered this beautiful and superb room where 


188 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


everything of the richest and. most magnificent was brought 
together, where hangings of blue velvet and the finest 
white lace contrasted with the painted ceilings and the 
beautifully painted panels of the walls. The pictures, even 
to his untrained eye, seemed priceless; he saw a white mar- 
ble Flora with a basket of heliotro|)e in her hands; he saw 
a copy of the famous Diana of the Louvre, and another of 
the Greek Slave; he was dazzled by the wonder and beauty 
of the place. The furniture was delicate and artistic; 
books in superb bindings; jeweled ornaments; the most ex- 
quisite of old chinas; the most recherche little works of art 
were scattered everywhere; the carpet was like a soft thick 
mass of flowers. • 

Then, when he had collected himself, he realized that 
this was his wife^s room. As he stood there he contrasted 
it with his little parlor at the little cottage. Ah, God! it« 
was for this she had left him! 

He looked at the soft, luxurious sofa where her beautiful 
head had lain, at the book she had just been readings at 
the jeweled fan that lay open on the table. A soft, mel- 
low light filled the room; the air was laden with perfume. 
If there could be — and there is not — any excuse for wrong- 
doing, she had it here. 

How he loathed and hated this splendor. How small 
and contemptible it seemed to him in comparison with 
love, truth, and loyalty. 

I might have lost myself for Laurels love, he said; 
‘‘but never for such gauds as these. 

Then the door opened; there was a rustle of trailing silk, 
a stir of the richly perfumed air; a tall , graceful, stately 
figure entered, with a certain jiroud, careless grace that was 
irresistible. 

He was standing near the hangings in the shade, and 
my lady did not see him at first. When she perceived the 
tall, silent, motionless figure she did not even raise her 
proud, sweet eyes to his face. She bowed her head in 
mute greeting, and going to the table took up the jeweled 
fan. 

“You wished to see me,’^ she said, gently, “ in reference 
to the little boy my maid has adopted 

Her voice had a luscious, sweet tone. He trembled as 
he heard it; his heart beat; the blood seemed to flow like 


A NAMELESS SIN. 18D 

burning fire through his viens; it seemed to him that the 
throbbing of his heart shook even the room. 

He knew her — it was Laure; more beautiful than d^ei’j 
more graceful, more dignified, with a new and more brill- 
iant loveliness. It was Laure, his wife; yet another Laure, 
so magnificent, so queenly, that he was filled with awe. 
The dress of white silk with its golden fringe, fell in 
sweeping folds to the ground, her white neck was clasped 
by a necklace of purest pearls; on the white breast lay a 
pearl cross; pearls were twined in the grand coils of golden 
brown hair; the white, rounded arms were bare to the 
shoulders, superb bracelets of gold gleamed on them; a 
sweet subtle perfume seemed to come from the folds of her 
dress and float round her as she moved — and this was 
Laure, his beloved young wife, whom he had last seen in her 

E lain print dress. His haggard face grew whiter still as 
e looked at her in her proud, careless beauty; could it be 
2 )ossible that he had ever clasped that imperial figure in his 
arms, had he ever kissed that face? 

He would have answered. her but that the sound of her 
sweet voice had stricken him dumb; he tried to open his 
white lips and speak to her; but it seemed to him that sound 
would come from them never more. She did not seem to 
wonder at his silence; she was quite accustomed to seeing 
men stricken into passion by the wonder and magic of her 
beauty. She thought he was shy, and considerately gave 
him a few moments to recover himself. She took up the 
jeweled fan and stirred the fragrant air; he saw the gold 
gleaming on her white arm, and it maddened him. 

“ My maid tells me,^^ continued the sweet voice, that 
you like the little boy very much.^^ 

Still no answer, no word, no movement in the silent 
figure, no sound; my lady, so gracious with her inferiors, 
continued: 

I am not surprised at it; he is really a fine little fel- 
low. 

Still no answer. My lady leaned back carelessly in her 
velvet chair; she fanned herself even more vigorously. She 
said to herself: 

"‘How timid he is. I shall not be able to set him at 
his ease."^ 

She went on:- 


100 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


My maid has told me of your generous offer; but I do 
not see how it can be accepted. 

tflien there was a sound, a stir; the tall, strong figure 
came from out of the shadow, walked slowly up to her, 
looked at her with hot, passionate eyes. 

Laure,^^ he said, in a low, hoarse voice, do you not 
know me?^^ 

Ah, my lady, my lady! The proud, graceful calm is 
gone. JShe rose with a low, hurried cry; the light seemed 
to quiver in her jewels. She held up her hands as though 
to ward off a blow. 

Who are you?^^ she cried. ‘‘ What do you meanr^^ 

Then they stood confronting each other, these two, hus- 
band and wife, betrayed and betrayer, the true and the 
false, looking at eacli other with a full steady gaze; the 
first throbbing of the passionate outburst that was to fol- 
low. She looked at him long and steadily, then the pride 
died out of her eyes, the color faded from her face, even 
her lips grew white as marble and quivered with pain. 

Who are you?^^ she asked. 

Then his hot, eager, trembling hands went out to her 
and clasped her dress. 

Who am I, Laure? Ah, my God! that you should ask 
my that question! that you ask who I am! I am Owen 
Eoden, your husband, Laure !^^ 

She tried to say I do not know you,^’she tried to move 
away; she tried to turn from him with averted face; 
but she could do none of these things; she shrunk trem- 
bling before him as the wrong-doer always shrinks before 
the injured. A great quiet dignity seemed to fall over 
him; he was transformed in that hour of sui)reme pain and 
most bitter anguish; a new and grander manhood was his; 
passion, wounded love, wounded honor, all took a noble 
form. 

‘‘ I am Owen Roden, and you know me, Laure, though 
you try to forget me. I am your husband! Oh, my wife, 
my wife!^^ 

“ You are mistaken, she tried to say; but false as her 
lips were she could not frame the words. 

There is no mistake. I am Owen Roden, and you are 
my wife; the beautiful girl whom I loved and married, the 
wife who deserted me.^’ 

Then his hands clasped hers; he drew nearer to her; 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


191 


his breath flamed hot on her face; she seemed suddenly 
aroused to a sense of her danger, and springing from him 
uttered a low cry. 

What do you mean?^^ she said. I am Lady Ulvers- 
ton. I do not understand. What do you mean?^^ 

You are my wife, Laure. If I loved you less you 
might deceive me. I loved you so that you can never cheat 
me; you are my wife; no disguise can hide you from nie."^^ 
Hush!^^ she cried, with a terrified gesture, ‘‘do not 
speak so loud — you — you mistake. 

“ You are my wife, Laure. I loved you and married 
you; do you think that I do not know the lips I have 
kissed, the face I have loved? No disguise on earth could 
hide you from me!^^ 

She stood quite silent, white and trembling; she made 
no further attempt to go away from him. Despite her 
leaving him, her love of luxury and pleasure, she had loved 
him with the only real love of her life; and now, as she 
stood faint and helpless in his strong grasp, all the mem- 
ory of that love came to her, stirring a passionate tumult 
in her heart, waking up again to a new, vigorous life. 
She sprung from the people, she had loved him ten thou- 
sand times better than she loved Lord TJlverston. 

“ You could not hide from me, Laure, I love you so well 
tliat I could kill you — slay you. I ought to do it. I ought 
to avenge myself, my outraged honor, my blighted name, 
my ruined life; I ought to slay you, my false, beautiful 
wife. I love you well enough to kill you and myself 
together; and I love you well enough, oh, weak fool that I 
am, I love you here and kiss the hem of your garment; I 
love you well enough to go mad for the love of you.’^ 

The terrible whiteness of her face gave place to a flush 
that seemed to burn it; his words touched the very core of 
her heart; she trembled like a leaf in the wind. 

“ Look at me, Laure, false wife, dear wife, look at 
me. 

She raised her face to his; then love, fear, remorse, 
dread, surprise, all flashed over her. 

“ You know me?^^ he said. 

“ I know you, Owen,^'' she whispered, and then she fell 
at his feet. 

He looked for one moment at the beautiful, prostrate 
figure, at the mass of white silk and gold, at the golden 


193 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


head and the fair face; he loved her well enough to kill 
himself in that moment for her sake. 

Then bending over her he raised her in his arms and laid 
her on the little couch, bending over her while she lay 
there cold and senseless — bending over her he kissed the 
pale lips with a passion of love and despair. How he 
kissed them — what long years since . he had touched them 
— what long years since he had been near that beautiful 
face! 

It was pitiful to see how the tears fell from his eyes and 
dropped on her cheek and he kissed them away — it was 
pitiful to see the passionate love. No child who had found 
its mother after a long absence could have caressed her so 
tenderly. Had she been conscious he would not have done 
it; as it was, he poured out all the yearning love, the re- 
pressed passion of years on her; as it was he kissed her, 
caressed, lavished his whole soul on her, and she was un- 
conscious of it all. 

‘‘ My wife! my wife!^^ 

If he could say no more to her those words seemed to ex- 
press all. 

Then he saw a faint quiver on her lips, a faint thrill of 
her eyelids, and, rising, he stood at some little distance 
from her; it would never do for her to find him worship- 
ing her in that mad fashion. 

I ought to have killed her,^^ he said to himself; and 
yet. Heaven knows, I love her better than ever.^^ 


CHAPTER XL. 

"‘that child is yours and mine.^^ 

Her beautiful eyes were open and looking at him. 

Owen, she said, faintly; then the sense of ifc all 
seemed to flash over her — she remembered, “ Owen,^^ she 
said again, “ how did you find me?^'’ 

Then he flung himself on his knees by her side; he cried 
to her: 

“ You recognize me? You do not pretend? You hide no 
longer from me? Oh, Laure, my beloved! I can pardon 
you anything now that you have spoken to me again; now 
that you have uttered my name. I was afraid that you 
meant to drive me from your presence with scornful words; 


A NAMELESS SIN. 193 

that you would persist in saying that I was mistaken. Oh, 
my wife! my wife! say my name once again !^^ 

Poor, simple Owen; his great, honest heart yearned for 
her; all the rankling memory of his wrongs died; he for- 
got everything as he looked at her beautiful face except 
that he had found her. 

Say my name again; speak to me, my darling, my 
love. My soul longs for you; my heart aches for you; my 
ears thirst for your voices my lips thirst; speak to me, Laure. 
Oh, my God! that I should love you so blindly, so madly !^^ 
She dare not take from his the hands he clasped with 
such mad passion. She dare not avoid him when he bent 
over her and kissed her lips. 

For such long — oh, my darling !^^ he said — for such 
long, terrible years. I have been a wanderer on the face 
of the earth; I have not rested, or slept, or laughed since 
I lost you, my Laure. The hart pants for the spring water, 
I have so longed for you. I have gone mad with my long- 
ing, and now I have found you. Oh, my love! my love!^^ 
His worn, haggard face fell weeping on the glistening 
folds of her dress; his voice died away in a passion of tears. 
She saw, what was perfectly true, that he had forgotten 
everything else in the joy of see!hg her. Her sin — her be- 
trayal — were forgotten ; he only knew that she was there, 
living before him. She could not recall to Liin what she 
was, what she had done; it would have been cruel as the 
shot that tears the life from a little bird. 

She lay still and silent until the passion of his love and 
grief was exhausted. Then he raised his face and looked 
at her; a crimson blush replaced the "pallor of his counte- 
nance. 

I kiss you,'’^ he said, and I ought to slay you. I 
ought to avenge myself. Oh, Laure, what have you done! 
what have you done to me?^^ 

The burning sense of shame had come back to him, then 
the hot, indignant protest against his dishonor and her per- 
fidy. He rose from his knees; he flung the perfumed folds 
of her robes far from Li m; he stood before her defiant, de- 
spairing, grand and great in his simple manhood. 

You left me — why did you do it? Was it for gold? 
Was it for a light, wanton love? ' Why was it?^^ 

Then she saw the lion of wrath was roused in him at last, 
he had been so passionately loving that she had begun to 


194 


A KAMELESS SIJJ'. 


think h© would not be angry. She saw ifc now, this storm 
she had dreaded rising higher and higher, and she cowered 
before it. 

Why did you leave nie.^ I had not much money, but 
I had a great heart full of love. I was poor, but I wor- 
shiped you. What right had you to leave me?^^ 

'None/^ she answered, clinching her white hands; 
none. 

Do you know all you have done to me?^^ he cried; 
“ do you know that you have ruined me, body and soul? I 
have prayed for death, but not for Heaven, since you left 
me. I had genius — so they say; it has been wasted. They 
tell me that I could have been a great man, had I studied 
and persevered; you killed my genius. I made money — 
and you value money, Laure; it was all dirt and dross to 
me, because you were not there to share it. I had hopes 
as every man has of a home, where wife and children 
should love me; you trampled them in the dust. You have 
made my whole life bare and desolate; you have taken my 
heart, which loved you so truly, and crushed it. You 
have trampled out my life under your feet.^^ 

. ‘‘ Forgive me, Owen,^^ she said, faintly. 

I gave you love — you^have given me dishonor; I took 
you into my heart and home — you have covered me with 
ignominy 5 1 gave you my name — ^you have stained it; I gave 
jvu my heart — you have broken it. I say that if I had 
true manhood in me I should kill you for what you have 
done to me. Why did you do it?^"^ 

She saw the storm of his mighty wrath rising higher and 
higher; she trembled before it, for she knew that he loved 
her so well. If she tried, she could soothe and quiet him. 
She had not been able to think; her mind was all in con- 
fusion and chaos; she had one clear idea and it was that 
she must prevent this, her terrible secret, from being 
known; she must soothe and quiet him. 

I am Sony, Owen,"" she said. ''No one but myself 
knows how sorry, and I have suffered because I loved you. "" 

" You say so now; you did so when you left me; a few 
words, though kindly spoken, will not give me back my lost 
love, Laure — my lost life, my blighted name—they are but 
words. "" 

" I was so sorely tempted, and I was so young,"" she said. 
" Who tempted you? Tell me who tempted you, and I 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


195 


will slay him. Who tempted my darling from me? Who 
took my wife from my arms? I will slay him, Laure.^^ 

It was no man,^^ she answered; no man could have 
taken me from you. I loved you. Ah, believe me, I loved 
you, and I suffered. 

He stood quite silent for a few minutes, doing fierce, 
hard battle with himself, suddenly he remembered why he 
was there. Believing this to be Lady Ulverston, he had 
come to ask her for the boy — the child who had Laurel’s 
face. Laurels voice, and his own name. A thrill of pain, 
sharp — not like lightning, seemed to pass over him; he for- 
got again for s6me few moments, his own wrongs faded 
again; he went up to her, and raising her face to his looked 
into it. 

‘^The child,^^ he cried; ‘^in the name of Heaven, tell 
me, Laure, whose is that child ?^^ 

Her face fell; he saw the red flush mount even to her 
temples. 

‘‘ The child— what child, Owen?^^ 

She clung to this portion of her secret while she could. 
What child she repeated, in alow voice that faltered 
over the words. 

You know — you know, he has your eyes, those sweet, 
cruel eyes, and he has my name ; he has your voice, and 
you love him — he said so. Oh, Heaven speak to me 
quickly — whose child is he? Laure, I tremble — I shall die 
unless you speak quickly; whose boy is he?^^ 

Pattie^s nephew,^^ she answered, faintly. 

But a new spirit had come to him. 

“ He is not,^^ he cried; I do not believe you; you are 
speaking falsely. He has my name; he has your voice. 
Oh, Heaven, she will not tell me; Laure, be pitiful to me 
— who is he?’^ 

A quick thought told her it was useless to deceive him 
now that he was on the track — that she had better tell him 
the whole truth and throw herself entirely on his mercy. 
She looked up at him. 

“ Spare me, Owen,^^ she said; I am a guilty woman. 
That child is yours and mine.^^ 

He turned, away with a deep moan; her perfidy was even 
greater than he believed. . 

And you have kept him from me,^^ he said; ‘‘you 
would have let him live and die without seeing me — my 


196 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


own child, and you have never taught him my name. Wife 
and — oh. Heaven, what have I done that I should deserve 
this? — wife and child/ ^ 

‘‘ Will you listen to me, Owen?^^ she asked, gently. He 
turned his white, pained face to her. 

‘‘ Yes, I will listen. Tell me first, Laure, was it fair to 
take my child from me; was it just?^^ 

‘No; I have neither been just nor fair to you. I am a 
miserable sinner; I am a guilty, wretched woman. Show 
me pity, Owen.-^^ 

The great, loving heart melted at the words; he wor- 
shiped her so entirely, that he could not hold out one mo- 
ment against her. 

Listen to me,^^ she said, and I will tell you the whole 
story. Owen, I will hide nothing from you.^^ 

He stood tall and erect, his worn face softened now by 
the sound of her voice. She stood before him, her white 
hands clasped with fevered energy, her beautiful face raised 
in its pleading to him. 

Listen to me, Owen,^^ she said again, and you will 
see how terrible my temptation was — jon will understand 
how I fell, and why I am here. 

It was a strangely dramatic scene — the magnificent room, 
with its bright flowers and mellow light; the tall, haggard 
man, with the worn, hands.ome face, contrasting in his 
homely attire with the elegant, beautiful woman in her 
trailing robes and gleaming jewels: in his face truth, hon- 
esty, tender love were written; in hers, shame and sorrow. 

Her words were poured out in a quick, passionate flow; 
he listened quietly and without comment. 

She told him all, making no excuses for herself, not hid- 
ing one single detail from him; telling him of her flight, 
her sorrow, her resolve to return to him — her pride and 
exultation when she saw what her birthright was, her hor- 
ror and fear when she found that in a short time she should 
be a mother; how with Pattie^s help, she passed through 
the ordeal; then of her nucleus desire for her marriage and 
its fulfillment. 

He listened until she had finished, and the passionate flow 
of words, that sounded like a ripple of faint music, had died 
away. 

Now do you see, Owen?^^ she said. 

He turned from her, with a low moan on his white lips. 


A KAMELESS 


197 


Yes, I understand, he answered, quietly. Your 
love for me so weak and faint, so feeble and little worth 
that these gauds outweighed it. You did not leave me for 
another love. You left me because that which they call 
the soul in women hungered after luxury. Oh, weak of 
love, weak of heart. I have no reproach to make; none 
would reach you, none would touch you. I have nothing 
to say.^^ 

But, Owen,^^ she cried, you forgive me?^^ The. 
broken heart of the man was shown in his face. 

I forgive you,^^ he said; may God do the same; you 
will need it.^^ 

And turning from her, he buried his face in his hands. 


CHAPTEE XLL 

YOU HAVE BROKEN- MY HEART. 

The little ormolu clock chimed nine; the sound of it 
startled Lady Laure. Lord Ulverston would soon return. 
She began to wonder what she was to do for the present. 
What was to become of her in the future she did not dream 
of considering. One thing was certain : Owen must go before 
Lord Ulverston returned. She went up to him, and gently 
laid her hand on the bowed head. 

Owen,^^ she said, speak to me.''^ 

She was shocked when he raised his face; it looked as 
though twenty years of sorrow had passed over it. He 
looked at her in hopeless despair. 

I have nothing to say, Laure; you have broken my 
heart. 

You have forgiven me?^^ she asked, anxiously. 

Yes. I have forgiven you,^^ he said; but the very tone 
of his voice was hopeless. 

And you will show mercy — you will be pitiful to me?” 
she continued. 

Yes,^’ he replied, briefly. 

She grew more hopeful as he grew hopeless. Bending 
down, she whispered to him. 

You will not betray my secret, Owen?^^ 

He looked at her with the same expression of hopeless 
despair. 

Do you remember, Laure,^^ he said, that once you 


198 


A ITAMELESS SIN”. 


asked me what I should do, if you ran away from me? My 
answer was that I should follow you through the world, and 
die humbly at your feet. I repeat the words. I shall die 
at your feet and die dumb. 

His patient endurance, his despair touched her more 
deeply than she cared to own. Still time was pressing— 
at any moment now her husband might enter, and if he 
found Owen there in that frame of mind, it was quite im- 
possible to tell how the affair would end, or what would be 
done. He saw that she looked anxiously at the clock. 

‘‘You want me gone,^^ he said; “ I will go, Laure.^^ 

She blushed as she answered him; then he repeated; “ I 
will go, Laure; but I must know more about my son. 
When and where will you see me?^^ 

“ To-morrow. Do you know King Charleses Vale? I 
will be there to-morrow afternoon at three. 

Then she rang and Pattie answered the bell. Her quick 
eyes noted the distress on Owen^s face. 

“ My lady has refused, she thought, to herself. She 
was doubly kind to him as she showed him out. If he 
could not have the boy, he might think more about having 
herself. 

He was very silent, and almost forgot to say good-night 
to her; but Pattie cheered herself by thinking that was all 
owing to his disappointment about the child. 

He had not left the house many minutes before liOrddJl- 
verston returned, but they did not meet. Pattie luui no 
time to speak to Lady Laure until she was in her own 
room. 

“ You refused, my lady?’^ she said. “ I knew it by his 
face.^^ 

“ Hot quite,^^ said Lady Laure; “ I have to see him once 
more. 

Then Pattie hung her head with a bashful air of one who 
expects to be complimented. 

“ Pray excuse my asking the question, my lady, but do 
you like him?^^ 

Lady Laure looked at her bewildered, then she suddenly 
remembered that she and Lord Ulverston had discussed the 
probabilities of Owen^s marrying her. She shuddered at 
the thought; what a coil she had woven round herself. 

Then, seeing the cloud that was coming over Pattie ^s 
face, she said, quickly. 


A KAMELESS SIK. 199 

‘‘ He seems very intelligent, very honest and honorable, 
Pattie. 

“ Oh, thank you, my lady,^^ said the girl, gratefully, as 
though the praise had been conferred on herself. 

And then Lady Laure was alone with her despair — alone 
and able to realize that Owen had found her out. It was 
strange, but she felt no fear of him; she felt quite sure that 
he would never betray her, that he would not go to Lord 
Ulverston and betray her secret; that he would not de- 
nounce her to the world — that he would never expose her 
to shame or suffering; her faith in him was strong. It 
was strong, but when she realized her own feelings, and un- 
derstood her own mind, her prevailing sentiment was one 
of deep regret for Owen; she felt so sorry for him; his 
changed face, from which all the honest happiness had gone, 
his despair, his passionate love touched her keenly. 

She felt more sorrow for him than fear for herself; she 
knew her influence over him; if she bade him to keep her 
secret, he would keep it until death; if she bade him go 
away and leave her in peace, he would go; she had no 
fear of him; but she was so intensely sorry for him; 
the tears fell from her eyes as she recalled the signs 
of suffering on that haggard face, as she thought of his 
worshiping love, his passionate devotion; no love could 
be like his; none so true, so deep, so loyal, and for ono 
moment she asked herself if her sin had profited her? 
if all that she had gained was worth what she had lost? 
whether that love would not have made her happier than 
all her wealth had done? whether, with Owen and her boy, 
it would not have been a brighter life? Then she answered 
herself No. Love was very well, but it did not suffice for 
her; she wanted more, she wanted life, wealth, fashion, a 
thousand and one things that love could not have brought 
her. 

What must she do? How would it end? She could not 
tell; she must see Owen again; she must hear what he had 
to say when he had recovered from the shock, and had col- 
lected his thoughts. 

She could not sleep or rest; of all the thoughts that had 
ever come to her of what was possible, this had not oc- 
curred; she had never thought that Owen would find her; 
of late, life had been so bright and beautiful that she had 
in some measure half forgotten the dark background. The 


200 


A KAMELESS sin. 


idea of Owen seeking her or finding her had not occurred 
to her; it was quite a new combination. 

!N'ow that she was alone, it was strange how her heart 
went back to him; she had never, patrician as she was, loved 
Lord Ulverston half so well as she loved this stalwart, hon- 
est, loyal man who worshiped her. 

As she sat by the window that night, unable to sleep or 
rest, all the memory of that brief married life came back to 
her again; his great passionate love, her sorrow at leaving 
him. The present fell from her; she was a girl once more, 
standing in the little room, taking the wedding ring from 
her finger with weeping eyes and aching heart; and now 
this man whom she had loved with the one great love of her 
life, this man whom she had betrayed and abandoned was 
near her again. 

Poor, honest, loving Owen, how worse than cruel she 
had been to him. 

I ought to have sent the boy to him,^^ she thought; 

it was cruel of me to keep all knowledge of the boy from 
him.^^ 

It showed her implicit trust and faith in him, that though 
he had found her, she had no fear of him, no fear that he 
would denounce her, or betray or reveal her secret, or drag 
her down from her high position; she knew that she could 
safely trust her life and her fair name in his hands. 

It was not that, it was not fear that drove sleep from her 
pillow and rest from her brain; it was remorse for the 
wrong, pity for the man who loved her so well. Her pity 
for him was so. great, it almost killed her. 

It was strange that in all these years she had not grown 
to love him less; that at the sight of him all the old love, 
poor as it was at its best, should have again sprung into life. 

Strange that she should have to battle, not with the fear 
of exposure, but with the most loving pity that ever filled 
any woman ^s heart to oevrfiowing. She had to see him 
again, what they should decide on she could not tell. 

After a long, sleepless, wretched night. Lady Laure 
roused herself to meet the coming day — a day she never 
forgot, although she lived years afterward. 

Pattie looked at her with scrutinizing eyes. 

You have not slept, my lady,^^ she said; and 'you 
have been troubling over the boy. I can see it by your face; 
you have no color, and your eyes look quite dim. 


A NAMELESS SIN. 201 

“ Then you must make me look fresh and gay/ ^ said my 
lady. 

Pattie opened the windows, that the fresh air might 
freshen my lady^s bloom; she found fragrant waters in which 
to bathe the pale face. Lady Laure soou looked like her- 
self again; she went down to the breakfast-room, but Lord 
Ulverston was not satisfied with her appearance. 

You are not looking so bright as usual this morning, 
Laure, he said, anxiously. ‘‘I am afraid you had a dull 
day yesterday, and that I did wrong to leave you.^^ 

“ I was not dull, Eudolph,^^ she answered. 

Then, remembering what an eventful day yesterday had 
been, a burning fiush rose to her face; she tried in vain to 
control it, but could not. Her husband looked curiously 
at her. 

My dear Laure, why are you blushing so furiously?^^ 
he asked. What is the matter 

‘‘ Nothing; but you must not think I am so foolish and 
unreasonable as to feel dull whenever you go out.^^ 

She dreaded arousing Lord Ulverston ^s suspicions. She 
had no fear of Owen; she was, in some measure, afraid of 
the master of Ulvers; he would never shield her and spare 
her as Owen would; she must be careful not to arouse his 
suspicions, yet he was looking quite curiously at her. 

‘‘ I do not think I have ever seen you blush in that way 
before, Laure,^ ^ laughed Lord Ulverston. “ I have a little 
plan to propose to you. I have not been through the gar- 
dens lately; will you spend the morning with me there? 
We will take Lily with us. You can have your books, and 
rest by the Great Fountain, if you will.'^^ 

Any other day she would have refused, she would have 
said that she did not care for fountains or flowers; but now 
just at this moment, she did not wish to raise his suspicions 
or give him cause for one moment^s thought. 

‘T should like that,^^ she said, if only, Eudolph, you 
will not want me to admire all your flowers. 

You shall not be teased about them,^^ he said; but 
after being parted from you all day yesterday, I can not lose 
sight of you this morning — yet I must go through the gar- 
dens. 

So the lovely little Lily was brought into the room, and 
the footman was sent to the Great Fountain, with a foot- 
stool for my lady and her books. 


202 


A KAM.ELESS SIK. 


CHAPTER XLIL 

THE SCENE IN THE GAEDEN. 

It was pretty to see little Lilyas joy when she heard that 
she was to go with mamma and papa to spend the whole 
morning in the gardens; the lovely little face flushed with 
joy and delight. Lady III vers ton smiled at the child’s de- 
light, and while she smiled her thoughts went to the other 
child, who was perhaps dearer, because he was first. 

We shall have a pleasant morning, Laure,” said Lord 
Ulverston; see how pleased Lily is.” 

The Great Fountain, as it was called, stood in the midst 
of the gardens at Ulvers; it was one of the prettiest spots 
in the world, although the alterations and improvements 
had not been carried out there. 

The fountain was a large one, and the spray seemed to 
cool the warm air; it stood in the midst of a beautiful green 
grass-plot, forming a lovely green cloister, shaded and cool. 
Lord Ulverston liked the spot; he often read his papers and 
letters there. Lady Laure preferred it to any other part 
of the grounds. 

The footman took my lady’s footstool, her books, a little 
stand of fruit for Miss Lily— everything they would be likely 
to want — my lady’s fan, her parasol; and Lord Ulverston 
looked round with a smile. 

We will make this spot our head-quartejs,” he said. 
“You shall sit there, and from time to time I will come 
to you; Lily will play on the grass.” 

It was a pretty home picture: the golden sunlight — the 
shade under the vine leaves — the silver spray of the fount- 
ain rising and falling with a musical murmur — the thick, 
green grass — the lovely, fairy child who played on it, the 
handsome, aristocratic man, who looked so fond and so 
proud of her — the beautiful, fair-haired woman, with her 
exquisite face and stately figure, looking doubly charming 
in her cool morning dress of rich white muslin. 

My lady leaned back in hei; chair and took up a book, 
while the fairy Lily amused herself by gathering the most 
blooming of flowers, and putting them on her mamma’s 
dress. 


A K'AMELiaS SIH, 


203 


It was indeed a pleasant home picture. No one could 
have guessed the terrible background of sin that darkened 
it. 

Lord Ulverston was delighted with the improvements. 

It was one of the most fortunate ideas I ever had; but 
I do not know, Laure, what I should have done without 
Mitchel. 

She smiled with languid grace. He did not see the shud- 
der that passed over her as she realized that Owen called 
himself Mitchel, and it was of Owen he spoke. 

If he knew — she looked at his proud, patrician face; 

if he knew.' ^ 

I wonder," said Lord Ulverston, ‘‘ if Mitchel is about 
here; I should like to speak to him. I will send for him. 
I think, Laure, this place might be much improved." 

She tried to look careless, but her face grew pale; she 
tried to speak carelessly, but her lips quivered. 

“ It might be improved, " she said; ‘‘but never mind 
about it now. 

“ Yes, it might be much improved — very much, indeed,'' 
he said, “ I will send for Mitchel." 

She made one more effort to save herself and Owen the 
pain of meeting. 

“ Do not send for him now, Eudolph," she said; “ Lily 
does not like strangers." 

He laughed. 

“ Laure does not like being teased over the gardens," 
he said; “ but really, if it will not annoy you, I should like 
to see him while the ideas are fresh in my mind. " 

If it had been any one else she would have said “ No," 
but she was afraid of exciting the least suspicion over 
Owen; if she declined or refused to have him sent for, her 
husband would perhaps wonder why it was. She feared 
even the least dawn of suspicion in his mind; it would be 
torture to Owen, double torture to her, still it must be 
done. She turned her face to little Lily, as she spoke: 

“ Send for him of course, Eudolph, if it pleases you; 
what can it matter to me? I am glad that you should be 
pleased." 

She spoke so indifferently that he did not believe she 
cared either one way or the other; he went to one of the 
gardeners working at some little distance, and asked him 
to send Owen. 


204 


A KAMELESS SIIST, 


She never knew how long a time passed until he came. 
She never knew how the time passed. Her whole soul 
seemed to listen for his coming. Lily brought her flowers, 
but her mother did not even see her; Lord III verston spoke 
to her — she answered him so completely at random that he 
thought she was engrossed in her book. 

Then she heard him; the deep, rich voice had lost 
all its music. Lord Ulverston was speaking to him; she 
did not dare raise her eyes, lest Owen should utter some ex- 
clamation and ruin her. 

Then she heard Lord III verston say: 

‘‘ I think it would be a great improvement, Mitchel, do 
you not? Come on to the grass-plot; Lady Ulverston is 
here, with my little daughter. Just come this way.^^ 

Then she realized her danger; he was coming into her 
presence. She looked up, although the effort was a great 
one, and met his glance, coldly, steadily, firmly; there was 
power and command in her eye; the expression in her face 
said plainly as a face could speak: Silence, do not betray 
me; silence for your very life.^^ It had the desired effect. 

He doffed his cap» and bowed lowly to her; then his face 
blanched and quivered with pain; that his heart was stabbed 
with keenest pain, who knew? He bowed before her, and 
she thought of his words, “ I would die humbly at your 
feet.^^ Then Lord Ulverston talked to him for several 
minutes about the vinery. Owen never heard — did not 
understand, his heart a^id his senses had gone out from 
him to the beautiful woman who had belonged to him and 
no other. 

There was never surely, a more tangled scene. Lady 
Ulverston gave no sign of it, except that her face was a 
trifle paler, and her jeweled hand trembled. He might 
have taken a terrible revenge on her then if he would; he 
might have told the story before her face as she sat, but 
he would not; he would never injure her; he would die a 
thousand deaths first. 

As he made no answer. Lord Ulverston fancied he did 
not approve; 'it never occurred to him that Mitchel was so 
absorbed in thought that he did not even hear him. 

You do not approve of my suggestion, he said; we 
will take a good look round and tell me what you think. 

He did so, and as his glance wandered over the flowers 
and grass he saw Lily; Lady Laure knew that he had seen 


A NAMELESS SIK. 


205 


her by the sudden passion in his face. He seemed to for- 
get everything, except that here was Laurels child; he went 
abruptly from Lord Ulverston^s side, and going to the 
little one raised her in his arms, looking intently in the 
sweet little face. Lord IJlverston might have been offended, 
had it been any one else; but Mitchel was a genius, and 
most things are permitted to a genius. 

That is my little daughter, he said. Are you fond 
of children 

Owen looked from the child^s face to my lady. She 
trembled with alarm and looking up into his face with a 
sweet smile, said: 

That is my little daughter, Mr. Mitchel. 

She knew the smile and the voice would disarm him. It 
did so — the child almost fell from his arms. Lord Ulver- 
ston smiled, thinking himself, what a strange man this 
Mitchel was. 

Poor Owen, he tried in vain not to look at his beautiful 
wife — he tried in vain not to look at the lovely child. 
Laurels little daughter; but the temptation was too strong 
for him — he longed to cry out; he longed to assert his right 
to her; she was his, that lovely child at her feet ought to 
have been his; he could not keep his eyes from them, and 
Lord Ulverston smiled again to himself, thinking it was 
very evident that Mitchel had never seen such a beautiful 
lady or lovely child be:^re. 

It was torture to him; no pain could have been inflicted 
on that sensitive, loving nature so keen, so bitter, as to 
force him to stand in her beautiful presence unrecognized, 
He hated himself for standing there mute ancf dumb — she 
was his wife, his own; this man, with all his wealth and po- 
sition, had no right to her; she was his. It was torture to 
them both; she heard his voice, she could see his face; she 
longed to go to him, to comfort him, and she was com- 
pelled to sit still. 

Oh, that little child; how poor Owen^s eyes followed it. 
How his heart yearned over it. What would he have 
given for a little daughter to love him as this child loved 
Laure. 

Lady Ulverston heard a deep long sigh, and she guessed 
rightly that he could not control himself much longer. She 
rose from her seat and went up to her husband. 

Kudolph,^^ she said, gently, I am tired of being here. 


20(5 


A KAM’EOSS SIN. 


I will take Lily for a walk round the garden. Yon will 
follow us at your leisure. 

She did not look at Owen as she bowed to him — she could 
not have left him without one word had she done so; and 
he — his whole heart shone in his eyes as they followed her. 
Then, with a calm, grave face, he turned to Lord Ulver- 
ston and tried to understand what he was saying. But he 
was so unlike himself that the master of Ulvers gave up 
the hope of listening to any original plan that morning. 
He thought that all he had heard about the man was true, 
that he was most certainly iu love with Pattie, and could 
think of nothing else. 

Owen gazed at him with wonder, and thought: 

If he knew — this proud patrician — if he knew, what 
would he do or say?^^ 

He was not quite himself; he had suffered an intensity of 
pain since he had left her — of pain, and of most unmeas- 
ured shame. He had all the noble man in him — he had 
pride, courage, bravery, and he suffered in proportion. He 
hated himself for not taking just vengeance; yet he could 
not take vengeance on her, he could not harm her; he 
loved her too well; he had spent the whole night out in the 
woods; he could not breathe in four walls; he must have air 
and space. 

What was he to do? The right thing would be to claim 
her. 

Claim her. He laughed aloud in bitter mockery at his 
own thoughts. He knew how little chance there was that 
this beautiful, queenly woman would ever go away with him. 


CHAPTEK XLIIL, 

^^COME BACK TO 

He is looking into her face with wondering, wistful, sor- 
rowing eyes. It can not be Laure; the world changes. 
Nature changes, all things change; but surely, his beauti- 
ful, beloved, young wife never could change into this beau- 
tiful woman, who stands, with such words upon her lips, 
for she is saying to him: 

You must go, Owen; I can not bear it. This morning 
I was ill with agitation. You must go.^^ 

Three o’clock in the afternoon had come, and she stands 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


207 


with him under King Charleses Oak. She has no fear, this 
brave, beautiful woman, who has dared to outrage so many 
laws, no fear; she says to herself that even should people 
see her there, even should her husband find her talking to 
him, there can be no harm. It would naturally be sup- 
posed that she was talking to him about his business. 

She took off all her jewels before she went. She would 
not irritate him by the sight of them. She dressed herself 
in a sweeping robe of black silk, in which, against her wish, 
she looked more beautiful than ever. Since the scene in 
the morning she had come to one conclusion, he must go; 
she could not bear it. She loved him best, this man 
sprung from the people; she loved him better than the 
aristocratic man whose life was all honor; yet, because she 
so loved him she was pained for him and for herself, and 
he must go. 

She could not bear it. She had seen the little Lily in 
his arms, had seen the wistful sorrow in his eyes, as he 
held the child; she had seen the mortal pain in his face, 
when his eyes, even against his own better will and sense, 
lingered on her. She had noted the terrible struggle that 
passed in his mind as to whether he should boldly claim or 
denounce her, or whether he should be mute, silent, and 
save her. She said to herself that she could not bear such 
another scene; and he stands before her now, pleading as 
though for dear life, for love, for honor, for Heaven. 

Give it all up, Laure,^^ he said; give it up; I have 
forgiven you; come back to me; I will work hard for you. 
Come back, dearest, and so find peace, honor, rest and 
Heaven at the end. 

“ I can never go back, Ovven,^^ she says, in a low voice, 
never. I may, nay, I do love you best; but I could never 
go back; luxury is more than a habit with me now, it is a 
necessity. I could not live without it. After being Lady 
Ulverston, of Ulvers, I could not go back to any middle- 
class life; it would not be possible. I must stay where I 
am. I have, after a fashion, sold my soul for the luxury 
and magnificence which is so dear to me. I must pay the 
price. 

And you have no mercy, no pity for me, Laure?^^ 

A quiver of pain passed over her face. 

There you mistake, she said. I have infinite pity, 
the greatest pity for you. I wish you were in Lord Ulvers- 


208 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


ton^s place. You do not seem to understand, Owen; it is 
not that I love you less, but that I love wealth and luxury 
more.^^ 

Have you thought of the end, Laure? Have you 
thought that your life is a life of sin, and that the end of it 
will be eternal death?’^ 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

shall have time to repent; I do repent, she said. 
“ I remember enough of my mother^s teachings to say that 
I do repent; that I am sorry from the very depths of my 
heart, but I can not undo it.-^^ 

He saw that if he stood there pleading from morning un- 
til night her answer would always be the same. It was 
more than useless. 

Laure, I am an honest man,^^ he said, ‘‘ and I have 
lived a clear, stainless life before God and man. I know 
that if I go away from here, leaving you, I shall be a 
coward, a traitor, and an abettor in your sin; I know 
that.^^ 

Yet,^^ she said, gently; you will do it.^^ 

“ I ought not. I ought to be brave enough and at any 
price tell the truth. 

Owen,^^ she said, firmly, “listen to me. If you did 
tell the truth, you would gain nothing by it — less than 
nothing. You might expose me, you might tell Lord 
Ulverston the truth, and he would at once separate from 
me; but you would gain nothing. I should not go back to 
you, Owen. I could not — I could never live that life 
again. It is idle to think of it. If you go to Lord Ulvers- 
ton and tell him, which seems 'to me is the idea you have — 
if you do that, he will of course be very angry; he will send 
me away; he will go almost mad with irritation and an- 
noyance, with sorrow and pajn; but he will be sure to allow 
me a good income; and, my poor Owen, I should not come 
back to you, dear. All that you would gain is eternal 
enmity from me. Is that worth while 

“ he said, “ I see. I understand. You are merci- 
less, Laure. I understand. The world has taken possession 
of you; your heart is fixed on such idle, useless things as 
title, rank, position. Oh, foolish Laure; the love of one 
heart outweighs it all.^^ 

“ In your opinion, not mine. You must go away, Owen; 


A NAMELESS SIN". 309 

you must lea^^ me. You have never resisted my wishes; 
you must not now.^^ 

Do you think that I can do it, Laure, after having 
looked in your face, looked in your eyes, heard your voice? 
Do you think that I can leave you, never to look on your 
face again? Ah, no, never, Laure.^^ 

Something of despair began to steal over her. What 
should she do, if he persisted in this? What would become 
of her? She could not endure the pain of his presence, yet 
he would not go. 

‘‘ Owen,^^ she said, gently, you must see. Your own 
good feeling, your nice sense must tell you that we can 
not live here, under the same roof as it were — you. Lord 
Ulverston, and L It would be monstrous. 

It is monstrous, he replied, quietly; I can well im- 
agine that any woman should shrink from the continual 
presence of two men whom she has betrayed. 

Her face flushed. 

Owen,^^ she said, quietly, if you begin to be cruel to 
me, I shall think the end of the world has come. 

I am not cruel; the cruelty has been on your side,^^ 
he answered. 

She looked up at him suddenty; it seemed to her that 
she had found a way to manage him at last. 

Owen,^^ she said, it is better to speak quite truth- 
fully; weak words and half words are of no use to us. Da 
you^ know what I have done — what, in plain English, is 
the name of the crime I have committed? It is an ugly 
word, Owen, and one that I never thought would be ap- 
plied to me. I have been guilty of bigamy.-’^ 

He started as she uttered the words. Coming from those 
beautiful lips it had a terrible sound. 

Bigamy,"^ she continued. Do you know the punish- 
ment of bigamy? I do. The crime has had some terrible 
attraction for me. When I have seen a case of bigamy, I 
have wondered if the time would ever come when sentence 
should be passed on me. 

‘‘Do not talk in that horrible fashion, Laure,^^ he 
cried. 

“ It may be horrible, but it is none the less true. How 
can I guarantee Lord Ulverston^ s conduct? If he is very 
angry with me, he is as likely to bring the terror of the law 
on me as not. Owen, if you tell him, you expose me to 


m 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


this. I may be tried for my sin, and condemned to suffer 
imprisonment. You know that I should not live one day 
in prison, so that I may safely say, that if you betray me 
to my husband you condemn me to death. You know 
best whether you would care to see me in a felon^s cell or 
in the prison. 

You know that I would not,^^ he said. “ You have 
conquered me; I have not another word to say. I will not 
send you to a prison cell, Laure; you are safe from me.^^ 
He turned away with the same despair as when she had 
first spoken to him. 

“ Owen,^^ she said, quietly listen to me. I am not 
quite heartless. I am so sorry for you that I am willing to 
do anything except return to you. Owen, I can make you 
some little compensation if you will let me. I am not at 
all selfish. I will give you the most precious treasure that 
I have on earth. I will give you my boy. 

He looked up at her with wonder. 

‘‘ Will you really. Do you mean it?^^ he cried. ‘‘ You 
will give me the cliild who is really my own son?^^ 

‘‘ I will give him to you,^^ she said. He is very dear 
to me, dearer than the little Lily. I will give him to you. 
You shall take him away, and Owen, with the boy to love 
you, you may be happy. You can work for him, love him, 
make a name to leave him; you can love life again for his 
sake; you can make him the object for which you live.^^ 
Owen buried his face in his hands. « 

‘‘ Oh, my boy, he said, “ my boyP^ 

I shall write to you sometimes,^ ^ she said, hurriedly; 
‘‘ and perhaps, once in life, I might see you again. 

For a few moments the thought of the boy seemed to 
console him, and he spoke of it almost cheerfully. 

I am to have him all for my very own, Laure, and no 
one is to ’take him from me, no one is to interfere with 
him; I am to have him in my own way; he is to be alto- 
gether mine?’^ 

Yes,^^ she replied, ‘‘yours and yours only.^^ 

Then his head dropped again. 

“ But you, Laure,^^ he said; “ the boy is beautiful, but 
he is not you. I want you — nothing will fill my life but 
you; you are so beautiful and so clever, Laure. I love you 
so well that you may persuade me to go away from you, 
but, my darling, it will be to die — not to live. 


A ITAMELESS SIK". 


Sll 


“ I can not say much more to you now, Owen. Look, 
there are some of the keepers coming. Listen. I speak 
in deadly earnest. If you betray me it will be to a punish- 
ment worse than death. If you linger here some great 
catastrophe will happen. If you love me, Owen, go away 
and leave me in peace. Go and take your son with you. 
You will be happier with him than you ever could be with 
me.^^ 

You do not care, then, if you never see me again, 
Laure, provided only that you are quite secure of your own 
safety?^ ^ 

I do care very much indeed, she said; but it is no 
use caring, Owen; my fate is fixed. See, the keepers are 
coming this way. 

‘‘ Laure, he said, you dismiss me with less kindness 
than you would show to a dog.^^ 

I dare not show you kindness,^^ she answered; ‘^you 
said once that you would follow me through the world and 
die dumb at my feet. 

‘‘ You turn my own words against me,^^ he cried. 

She said, quickly: 

These men are doming to speak to you, Owen. I must 
go. I will see you again. 

But she neither guessed how nor where. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

A BROKEiq- HEART. 

She walked away, not hurriedly, for that might have 
given the men the impression that she was there for the 
purpose of talking to Owen, and that they had interrupted 
her. Just as they reached the great tree she moved on 
caerlessly with a languid step, leaving him bewildered as 
he had never been before. The men spoke to him. He 
did not seem either to hear or understand. They repeated 
the question, and he looked at them with vague, dim eyes. 

You do not seem well, Mr. Mitchel,^^ said one of 
them; has my lady frightened you with her proud ways? 
She means no harm, but she is proud. My hair stands 
upright when she speaks to me. 

Thasound of her name aroused him. He must do noth- 
ing, say no tiling, which would cast suspicion on her. The 


213 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


punishment of bigamy was imprisonment; he must not 
send his beautiful beloved to prison. These men must 
not think it was my lady that had bewildered him. He 
raised his hand to his head. 

My lady has not frightened he said, but I feel 

ill.^^ 

Then he settled the question they had come to ask him, 
and walked away. 

There is something queer about that man,^^ said one 
to the other. Hid you see the queer, drawn look on his 
face?^^ 

“ I saw it, and I know what I think, was the reply. 

I have seen it on the face of another man, and I never 
want to see it again. It means danger. 

They passed on carelessly. That the shadow of a tragedy 
hung over the lordly mansion of Illvers— who could tell? 
Owen followed them mechanically to some little distance. 
He wanted to see the child. He had not seen him since he 
knew that he was his own. He went to Chiltern^s cottage 
and asked for him. 

In a few minutes the boy came, full of life and happi- 
ness, shouting and singing in the flush of his childish joy. 
He had grown to love Owen. He looked up now into the 
pale, haggard face. 

Are we going to have a squirrel hunt?^^ he asked, 
seizing Owen^s hand. 

‘‘Yes, if you like,^^ he said. “ Come with me.^^ 

The boy walked away with him happily enough, and 
kindly Mrs. Chiltern said: 

“ What a great pity it is that Mr. Mitchel has neither 
wife nor child of his own, he loves children so much. It 
seems to me the men who would make the best husbands 
never marry at all. 

Owen walked on quickly to the woods. His heart was on 
fire. He wanted to take the child in his arms and kiss his 
face, to make him utter his name, to pour out the great 
"wealth of his love on the boy — the boy who was his own, 
and who was to be his own forever more. 

They reached their favorite spot, where the squirrels 
jumped nimbly from bough to bough. Owen was wise 
enough to see that the child ^s heart was longing to play 
with him. He put aside his own longing and his o^n de- 
sirO; and played with him. They hunted the squirrels. 


A NAifELKSS SI3Sr. 213 

they gathered the nuts until the boy was tired, and then 
he took him in his arms. 

The child looked up at him in wonder as the hot tears 
fell from Owen^s eyes on his face. Such hot, passionate 
tears, and great sobs shook the strong frame, and seemed 
to tear the breast on which the curly head lay. 

What is the matter he asked. 

Owen clasped him more tightly stilJ. 

I am in such sore trouble, Johnnie,^^ he said; such 
sore, bitter trouble. 

‘^Are you?^^ asked the wondering boy; then with a 
child^s loving instinct, he threw his little arms round 
Owen^s neck and kissed his face. 

'^^Don-’t cry,^^he said, trying to comfort him; ‘‘don^t 
cry; I love you.^^ 

Do you love me, Johnnie]^” he asked, his wistful eyes 
fixed on the bonny little face. Do you really love me?^^ 

Yes, I do — better than nurse; better than Pattie; I 
love you best of all. 

Johnnie,^ ^ said Owen, look at me.^^ 

The bright, fearless eyes were raised to his. 

I want to ask you something. You say you love me 
— and oh, my little boy, I love you very much, more than 
you know. I shall tell you a secret one day, why I love 
you. Would you like to go away from here with me, a 
long distance away? We should have a pretty little house 
all our own. I would teach you all about the fiowers and 
the trees. I would make you so happy, so unutterably 
happy. Will you come and live with me, to be my own 
little boy always, as long as you live?^^ 

Should we see Pattie? he asked. 

‘^Perhaps, sometimes; I am not quite sure,^^ he an- 
swered. 

Should we ever see the beautiful lady — Lady U1 vers- 
ion ?^^ asked the child. 

With a bitter, passionate cry he locked the child in his 
arms. 

'No/^ he cried, we should never see her. Oh, my 
darling, never — never. 

Then I will not go,^^ said the boy. I love her. I 
should not like to leave her.^^ 

‘^But I will make you so happy, Johnnie,^^ pleaded 
Owen. 


214 


A KAMIStiKSg SI2sn 


No/^ said the child, ‘‘ I will not leave her/^ 

‘‘ Do you love her best?^^ he asked. 

And the child was deaf to the pathos of the voice. 

“ Yes/^ said Johnnie, I love her best. 

These words broke his heart. They were the crown of 
his sorrows. Even this little child deserted him for his 
beautiful mother. He turned away with a moan, and 
something more than a moan came from his white lips — a 
thin stream of crimson blood. At first he thought little of 
it, and held his handkerchief to his mouth; but the thin 
stream grew stronger and some instinct told him that 
stream of crimson blood meant death. 

In after hours doctors discussed the case. Some said 
that the vessel ruptured was in the lungs; that he had 
long been threatened with it; but the reality was the wan- 
dering life, the nights spent; without sleep, the days with- 
out food, the anguish of mind and soul had killed him 
slowly, and the last drop, the last pain, was when the child 
he loved refused to go with him because he loved his 
mother best. Owen lay back faint and exhausted on the 
grass. 

Johnnie, he said, faintly, ‘^bend over me. Say 
‘ My dear father.^ 

My dear father, repeated the child, and a beautiful 
light came over the white face. 

Little Johnnie, he said, my own son, my darling, 
run to the cottage, find Chlltern, and tell him that I am 
lying ill in the woods here. Bring him back with you I 
The child ran off to do his bidding, and Owen was left 
alone. The chances were if he had immediate help, 
proper restoratives, and all means taken to stop the bleed- 
ing, he might have lived; but he lay there faint and help- 
less, quite unable to, move, the life-blood welling slowly 
from his white lips. It seemed to him that he lay there for 
hou1:s. The leaves from the trees fell over him, the 
squirrels jumped fearlessly round him, the merry brown 
hares did not seem frightened at him, the birds sung just 
as sweetly, and the wind stirred the long grass. 

While he lay dying, so slowly the time passed, a burn- 
ing thirst and delirious fancies came to him, but through 
it all he preserved his consciousness. He was to die as he 
had lived — alone. He had suffered so. He wondered if it 
were all over, if liis sad life had ended. If it were, might 


A KAMELESS SIN. 


215 


God have mercy on Laure! No word of his, even in the 
agonies of de^h, must betray her. Even if he was dying 
he must not send for her. He must die as he had lived — 
alone.‘ His words came back to him as he lay there: He 
would follow her to the end of the world and die dumb at 
her feet. 

They were long in coming; it seemed doubly long to 
him, with that burning thirst and that deadly exhaustion. 
The profound silence of the woods, broken only by the 
birds and the wooing wind, seemed weird-like to him. In 
the far distance he heard the sound of the child^s voice; 
then there was the noise of breaking branches, hurried 
footsteps, and the loud tones of men. 

He is here,^^ cried little Johnnie, and the next mo- 
ment they were all around him — the child, Chiltern and 
the two keepers who had passed him a few hours ago. 

I knew he was dying, said one; “ I saw death in his 
face. Death has a gray look like a shadow, and it lay over 
him as he stood by the great oak this afternoon. 

They bent pityingly over him. Chiltern had tears in his 
eyes. They had sense and knowledge to see that he had 
bled his life away. They raised him kindly and laid him 
on the stretcher, then carried him to his solitary lodgings 
to die; but all the way poor Owen clasped the child^s hand 
in his, and would not let him go. They laid him on the 
little bed and sent for a doctor, although they knew he 
could do nothing for him. Then Owen called Chiltern to 
him. 

Am I to die?^^ he asked. 

‘‘lam afraid so,^^ he answered. 

“ Oh, thank God, thank God,^^ he whispered; and in his 
heart he said to himself, how much better it was for him 
to die, for now, she, his darling, could marry Lord Ulvers- 
ton and live without sin. He would have died gladly a 
hundred deaths to have secured her happiness and peace. 
They wondered at the sweet smile on his face when he 
turned to the boy. 

“ Johnnie, he said, “ you must come to me in Heaven, 
will you?^^ 

“ Yes,^^ said the child, “ I will come.^^ 

Then the doctor arrived, and there was the usual ex- 
amination, but the doctor shook his head gravely. 

“If he had been attended to at first,^^he said, “he 


216 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


might have lived; but he has simply bled to death. Noth- 
ing can save him.'’^ 

Mrs. Chiltern came to nurse him, and when the doctor 
had gone she bent over him. " 

My dear/ ^ she said, ‘^you must have friends some- 
where. Let me send for them. 

But he whispered. 

No, I have not one — ^not one in the world. 

Think again,^^ she said. Is there no one you would 
like me to send for?^^ 

He lay quite silent for some minutes thinking. He was 
d^dng and with his whole heart he longed to see her again. 
He might send and he might die with her dear face near 
him. 

But to send for her would excite comment and gossip. 
He must not do that even to find happiness in death. He 
must die dumb. 

No,^^ he replied, there is no one, believe me — no 
one; but ^ildren always make me think of angels. Let 
little Johnnie stay with me until I die. How long will it 
be, Mrs. Chiltern, do they say?^^ 

Before the sunrise of to-morrow, she answered. 

And then, taking Johnnie^s hand in his, he lay quite 
still with whispered prayers on his lips. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

LOED ULVEESTON'S SUSPICIONS AROUSED. 

There was a dinner-party at the Hall. The Earl of 
Roseaton, with his charming young countess, had arrived 
there on a visit, and Lord TJlverston had given a dinner- 
jiarty in their honor. Lady Laure remembered this as she 
was returning from the oak; she had forgotten it until 
then. 

The tumult and agitation of her mind had been so great 
since she had recognized Owen that she had remembered 
nothing else. As she walked back to the house she felt 
sure that all would now go well. Owen would go away. 
She congratulated herself on her own skill in having sent 
him from her; he never would draw her into danger, she 
knew that; she had used the only words which had the 
power of sending him away. All would go well. She 


A NAMELESS Sli^. 


217 


•would give him the child. Poor Owen, he should have 
that comfort and consolation, no matter what happened. 
She should tell Pattie that she had given him permission 
to adopt Johnnie. It would be a nine-days^ wonder, but 
Pattie would have all the credit of it, not she. 

It was late in the afternoon when she reached the Hall, 
and Pattie met her with an anxious face. 

‘‘ My lady,^^ she said, have you forgotten the dinner- 
party? You left me no orders about your dress. 

I had forgotten it,^^ said my lady. 

She was compelled to put all thoughts of Owen away, 
and give the whole of her attention to her toilet. On 
those days Lord Ulverston lilted her to be well dressed, 
nothing would have annoyed him more than any failure on 
her part. 

The dress decided upon was of the loveliest, the palest 
possible shade of pink brocade, half shrouded in rich white 
lace, and embroidered in seed pearls. A parure of pearls 
and a few white flowers completed one of the most effective 
toilets. Ho mention was made, either by mistress or maid, 
of Owen or the child. Pattie had that one wonderful 
qualification — she always knew when to speak, and when 
to keep silent. 

The dinner party was, as usual at Ulvers, a grand suc- 
cess. Ho one understood the art of dinner or of dinner 
giving better than Lord Ulverston. He was the most 
courteous of hosts, the most charming of friends. 

The ladies were in the drawing-room, and Lady Laure, 
looking over a folio of engravings for one which she wanted 
to show the countess, bent over the table. Her dress 
caught, and some of the pearl fringe was broken. It was 
a slight accident, yet but for it she would never have seen 
Owen Roden again. 

At first she paid no attention to it, then the pearls an- 
noyed her by falling whenever she moved. She excused 
herself to the countess, and went to her room; she rang 
for Pattie, intending to have the little rent in the fringe 
securely fastened. She rang once, twice, thrice, and no 
Pattie. The fourth time, angrily, and when Pattie hur- 
riedly entered, with many apologies. Lady Ulverston saw 
that her face was wet with tears. 

Pattie, what is the matter ?^^ she cried. The boy — 
is anything wrong with the boy?^^ 


218 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


my lady. Have you not heard of the accident? 
she cried. 

No^ I have heard of no accident/^ said my lady. 

What is it?^" 

I don'^t know what it is; but Mr. Mitchel has been 
found dying in the woods — bleeding to death, my lady, 
though whether he hurt himself or any one hurt him, I do 
not know. 

She might well wonder what had come to her lady, for 
the brilliant, beautiful mistress of Ulvers fell back with a 
shudder, white and helpless. 

Great Heaven she moaned, have mercy on me.'^^ 

One thought fastened ^n her heart and brain. It was 
that, in his despair, Owen Eoden had killed himself. She 
was silent for a few minutes, then she said, slowly: 

Where is he, Pattie?^^ 

They have carried him to his lodgings, she replied. 

I saw Chiltern, my lady; I met him as I was going down 
to the lodge; he told me that the child is with him; 
that Mr. Mitchel forbade them to send word to my lord; 
he would not allow him to be disturbed. 

But is it true, Pat tie, that he is dying — really dying?^^ 

Quite true, my lady,^^ sobbed Pattie. Cliiltern says 
he will not live until sunrise. ' 

Then, with a quiver of her white face. Lady Ulverston 
laid her hands on Pattie^s arm. 

My good friend, she said, my true friend, you must 
help me; I must see him. You hear, if it costs me my 
life I must see him. But if I can see him without any one^s 
knowing but yourself, so much the better for me. Do not 
look at me — do not speak to me, Pattie,^ ^ she cried; I 
must see him.^^ 

He was not a stranger to you, then, my lady?^^ said 
the maid. 

‘‘ Ho, he was not. How you must help me. I shall 
leave the drawing-room as soon as I can. I can go alone, 
and you must keep the doors open, until I return. 

I will do that,’^ said Pattie. 

She saw there was some mystery, and she was too loyal 
to ask the solution of it. Lady Laure could hardly tell 
how the next hour passed. There were music and laughter, 
the flashing of jewels, the fragrance of flowers, the silvery 
laughter of women while Owen lay dying. 


A KAMELESS SIN. 


219 


Far from them, Owen, her husband, the man she loved — 
the kind generous man wlio had wooed her, the husband so 
true and tender of heart — who had been so pleased to take 
her home — Owen, whom she had left in such bitterness of 
sorrow, whom she had dishonored and betrayed. He lay 
dying. 

You look very ill, Laure,^^ said her husband, coming 
to where she sat at the piano with dim eyes and a wistful 
face. You look very ill, my darling. 

She raised her dim, shadowed eyes to his. 

“ I am ill, Eudolph; that is my head aches. I can not 
tell you how it aches. I shall be so glad when this terrible 
night is over.^^ 

I will see that our friends leave early, he said. ‘‘Go 
to your room, Laure, if you like. I will make your ex- 
cuses. 

She thought rapidly. If she went to her room she 
should not dare to leave the house until all the guests had 
left, and her husband had gone to his room. If she went, 
the chances were they would stay later; if she stayed they 
would go sooner. 

“ You are very kind, Eudolph,^^ she s^d, “ but no, I 
prefer remaining until they go. 

The young countess soon perceived that her beautiful 
hostess was not quite herself. Laure was frightened at the 
pallor of her own face. She feared it must attract atten- 
tion, and all the while Owen lay dying. 

The hour of release came at last. One by one the visit- 
ors disappeared, then the earl and the countess withdrew. 
She was free to go to her own room, free to go to Owen. 

“ Good-night, Eudolph,^"^ she said, holding up her beau- 
tiful face for her husband to kiss, “ good-night. 

“ Get up as fresh as a rose in the morning, Laure, he 
said; “ you look like a lily to-night. 

“ I am tired, she said; “ so tired, Kudolph.^^ 

Then she went to her room, trembling with impatience, 
panting, crying, out in her haste and eagerness. 

“ Be quick, Pattie, he is dying. Remember — dying. 
Be quick! I must not delay one moment! I have delayed 
too long, but they would not go. It was so cruel; they 
would not stir. Quick, where is my cloak? 

“You will change your dress, my lady,^^ she said, 
“ surely ?^^ 


220 


A NAMELESS 


‘‘ No, I can not stop to change my dress. He may die. 
Give me a cloak, a shawl — anything that will hide my 
dress and my jewels.^’ 

Pattie gave her a long black cloak, which she threw over 
her head. 

You will wait for me, Pattie, at the side door in the 
side hall, you know. Wait there. 

I will wait, my lady,^^ said the maid, but I wish you 
would let me go with you. I am afraid harm will come 
of it. 

‘‘No harm can come,^^ said Lady Ulverston. “Be 
careful for me, Pattie. 

With light, quick steps she hurried away down the side 
staircase, through the side hall, through the court-yard 
and the small shVubbery, hurrying as though for dear life, 
for Owen lay dying. 

As she drew near the stables she stopped suddenly, for a 
light was shining there. Yet what did it matter? It could 
only be some of the grooms. They would not see her. She 
hurried past. 

It so happened that Lord Ulverston^ s favorite hunter 
had met with ar^accident, and he, feeling very uncomforta- 
ble over it, had gone, late as it was, to hear the groom^s 
last report about it. That report was favorable, and Lord 
Ulverston was very much relieved. 

The night was fine, and he remained a few moments to 
smoke a cigar; then, as he threw away the last ashes it 
seemed to him that a tall dark-robed figure passed quickly 
through the shrubbery. Then surely as the stars shone in 
heaven he saw the face of his own wife as she passed by 
the carriage-house. 

At first he felt timid for one half moment. He had just 
left her going to her own room, pale and tired; now he saw 
her hurrying for her dear life. Was it Laure or was it his 
own fancy? 

He was quite undecided for a few minutes. It seemed so 
perfectly impossible that it should be Laure, yet he had 
most certainly seen her face. The only thing to do under 
the circumstances was to follow her, yet where at this hour 
of night could she be going alone? The tall dark figure 
went on swiftly. He followed down the broad gMes, 
down the shady avenue of chestnut, down the broad drive, 
and it stopped before the door of the little lodge where 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


221 


Mitchel lived. Something unusual was there, he felt sure. 
There were lights in the windows, shadows on the blinds. 

It can not be Laure,^^ he said. ‘‘It was a trick of 
fancy. It must be Pattie.-^^ 

Yet why should Pattie steal out here in the silence of 
midnight? Lord U1 vers ton was quiet for a few minutes; 
then he decided that there was evidently some mystery on 
foot, and it was his duty to penetrate it. 

The tall figure entered the house; then after a few min- 
utes he saw its shadow on the white blind of the upstairs 
room; another minute, and he heard a cry. Ah, the bit- 
terness, the passion of that cry! He knew the voice; it was 
his wife^s. 

He went in, and as he crossed the threshold he heard 
Mrs. Chiltern say: 

“ Hot while my lady is there. 

The women uttered a little cry when they saw him. He 
laid his hand on Mrs. Chiltern^s arm. 

“ Silence,^'’ he said, “ my wife. Lady Ulverston, has 
gone up those stairs. I must follow her!^^ 

He went up, and they did not dare to stop him by one 
single word. 


CHAPTEK XLVL 

“ WHAT IS MY WIFE DOING HERE?^^ 

When Lady Ulverston entered the lodge, she saw Mrs.- 
Chiltern, who gazed at her with wonder. My lady went 
to her. 

“ Is it true,^^ she said, “ that Ow — that Mr. Mitchel lies 
here dying — is it true?^^ 

“Quite true, my lady,^^ she answered, with a deep 
courtesy. 

“ I want to see him alone — I knew some one whom he 
knew once; and I want to tell him about her. You will 
keep my visit a secret?^^ 

“ Your ladyship may trust me,^^ said the kindly woman; 
“ indeed I am to be trusted. 

“ I will give anything, gasped Lady Laure, “ if you will 
secure me one half hour with him alone. 

“ That I will do,^^ was the answer. 

Then the master of the cottage, hearing voices, came in, 
and he also promised faithful silence. 


222 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


I will make you both rich for life/^ said my lady, to 
whom money was dross; “ only secure me one half hour 
with him/^ 

The child is with him,^^ said Mrs. Chiltern, and he 
will never loose his hold until he dies.^^ 

Lady Ulverston looked at first as though they had struck 
her a mortal blow. The child — Owen^s own son was with 
him. 

It will not matter about the child/ ^ she said, gently. 

Show me the way to his room.^^ 

The lodge was a picturesque, comfortable, well-built 
house. It had two fioors, and on the upper fioor lay Owen 
Koden, who was to see the sun on earth no more. 

Lady Ulverston went slowly and gently up the narrow 
staircase. She saw the light shining in one of the rooms, 
and, pushing the door, she entered without a sound. 

What a pitiful sight met her eyes! The little one, tired 
with his long vigil, lay by Owen^s side fast asleep, and 
Owen had no other to' cling to in his dying hour than the 
little child. The beautiful face was fiushed with slumber, 
the brown curls lay in tangled richness over the pillow; 
the little hands clasped Owens’s own, as though only death 
could unclasp them; and Owen lay dying, with his eyes fixed 
on the child^s face. She went up to the bedside. 

‘‘ Owen,^^ she said, and his pale face fiushed at the sound 
of that dear voice. He looked at her as she stood there:, 
the dark cloak had fallen from her shoulders; her rich 
dress, with its pearl fringe, was in picturesque disarray; the 
jewels on her neck and on her white arms gleamed in the 
feeble light; her golden hair had fallen over her neck. She 
had never looked so beautiful in all her life as when she 
stood by her husband's death-bed ready to risk all for a 
few words with him. Owen/' she repeated, and gently 
drew his hands from the child. He opened liis arms to 
her; infinite love shone in the dying face, infinite pity in 
the dying eyes. He opened his arms. 

Oh, my love, my love!" he cried, aloud, “ my wife!" 

Then she buried her face on his breast, and sobbed 
aloud. She loved him best; as she knelt there, all the love 
of her early days came back to her, the fond, sweet love; 
and she clasped her white arms round him. 

“ Let me die with you, my darling!" she cried. 

I am glad to die, Laure," he said, faintly. If I had 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


223 


lived, you must have lived in sin; you must have been mis- 
erable; now you can love me without wrong, you may love 
me dead, as you could not have loved me living. - For your 
sweet sake, Laure, I am glad to die. 

Was there ever love like his love? 

He went on: 

When I have been dead some time, Laure, you must 
tell Lord Ulverston the story; you need not tell him all, 
only enough to show him that your marriage was not legal, 
and that you must be married again. I have been think- 
ing about it, Laure, my love; when quite free, then for 
your souFs sake, your honoFs sake, your children's sake, 
you must remarry Lord Ulverston. 

I know,^^ she said. 

‘‘ Promise me you will do it, Laure; that no false pride, 
no false shame, will prevent it. Will you promise 

‘‘ I do promise, she replied. “ I will keep my word, 
Owen.^^ 

I have given you up on earth, my darling, he said; 
“ but I shall wait for you in Heaven; there you will be- 
long to me forever and for evermore. 

Was there ever love like his? He was willing to die that 
she might be free; he had yielded all claim to her on earth 
for her own sake, hoping to meet her in Heaven. 

Laure, he said, with a faint smile, I have kept my 
word to the very letter; I have followed you, and I die 
dumb, my darling; I have kept your secret. I die dumb, 
my darling; not at your feet, but in your arms. Kiss me, 
Laure. 

She bent over him, her beautiful face wet with tears, her 
golden hair sweeping his pillow. 

Owen,^^ she whispered, as she laid her lips on his, ‘‘ do 
you quite forgive me? I love you best; I have loved you 
best all along. Do you quite forgive me?^^ 

Quite, with all my heart; my pardon is great and am- 
ple as my love,^^ he said; then she laid her sweet, fresh 
lips on his. 

A voice startled them, the dying husband and the guilty 
wife — a voice, deep, stern, and angry, cried: 

Let me ask, in the name of Heaven, what this means?^^ 

0 wen saw the tall figure and angry face of Lord Ulverston 
at the door. Laure recognized his voice and, clinging to 
Owen, cried: 


224 


A KAMELESS SIK. 


‘‘ Let ine die with you; Owen, do not leave me!^^ 

Lord TJlverston closed the door, and came up to the 
bedside.* 

In the name of Heaven, what does this mean, Laure, 
my wife? What are you doing here? Why have you kissed 
this man^s face? Why are you kneeling by his side? 
What does it mean?^^ 

‘‘ Owen,^^ she cried again, take me with you. I dare 
not, I can not brave it all!^ 

Lord TJlverston bent over the bed. 

It is Mitchel!^^ he cried. They said down-stairs you 
were dying, but they did not tell me who you were. 
Mitchel, you are an honest man. What has brought my 
wife here in this fashion? and the child — you have John- 
nie here! There is more in this than I understand. 

The sound of angry voices woke the child, and he turned 
instinctively to Owen. It was the most pitiful group — the 
dying father, the weeping wife, and the little child! When 
Lord TJlverston saw the three clinging together, a strange 
expression came into his face. 

In God^s name,^^ he cried, I demand to know what 
this means, Laure! Mitchel, speak to me. What is it? 
what is my wife. Lady TJlverston, doing here? Answer 
me, Mitchel !^^ 

But no; he had said that he would die dumb. 

I have no answer, my lord, to make,^^ he replied. 

What are you to Lady TJlverston? Why is she here? 
Why should she caress you?^^ 

Owen passed his hand with a caressing gesture over the ^ 
golden head; he drew her closer to him with a gesture that 
had in it something of protection. 

Lord TJlverston^ s face flushed crimson when he saw it. 

‘‘What is it?^^ he cried. “What lies under the sur- 
face? Mitchel, speak to me — what is my wife to you?^^ 

“ I shall die dumb, my darling,^^ he whispered, fainting. 

But Laure raised her face from his breast, white as the 
face of living woman never was before. 

“ I should have told him, Owen,^^ she said; “ I will tell 
him now; and if he will not forgive me, I will die with 
you!^^ 

Ah! you who think that sin has no punishment, you 
who think the way of sin is easy and pleasant, who believe 
it possible to prosper in wrong-doing, you should have beeu 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


225 


present while Lady Ulverstoii paid the penalty of hers. Sin 
wears a smiling mask, a death's-head hides behind it; sin 
has a siren voice, a death-wail follows it. Every sin will 
as certainly bring its punishment, as sure as death follows 
life. 

Her punishment came now when she turned from the dy- 
ing to the living man with that story of shame and sorrow 
on her lips. It was a scene full of passion and tragedy. 

♦ The dying man clinging to the child, clinging to the 
beautiful woman whose white, despairing face was raised 
to him, who asked for justice, clinging to her, yet longing 
to protect her, to take her in his feeble arms and shield 
her against the rage of the man she had betrayed. 

Is sin easy, pleasant, and unpunished? She did nor 
think so as she turned with despair from the dying man. 

Let me speak, she said. I shall have to tell him. 
Let me tell him now. 

What have I to hear?^^ cried Lord Ulverston; sure- 
ly, if ever a man trusted his love and honor to a woman ^s 
hands, I have left mine in yours, Laure!^^ 

I am a miserable sinner, she said, bowing her head; 

I can not expect that you will forgive me, Kudolph. He 
loved me with a faithful, wonderful love, that even my 
falsity and cruelty has never changed. I can not expect 
that you will ever forgive me. Left to myself, I should 
never have told you; but it seems to me that God Himself, 
in punishment of my sins, has brought me here at your 
feet.^^ 

Laure,^^ said Lord Ulverston, ‘‘ what are you think- 
ing of? What are you saying? Do not kneel there, let 
me bring you a chair; it seems to me that you have gone 
mad!^^ 

But she would not take the chair, she would kneel by 
Owen^s side, clasping Owen’s hand, while for the second 
time she told the story of her sin. 

Told it with passionate tears and prayers, sparing herself 
no detail, making no false excuse, no pretense. She told 
him the plain, unvarnished, simple truth, and when the ter- 
rible story was told she buried her face again on Owens’s 
breast. 

Lord Ulverston listened and looked like a man turned 
to stone. When she had finished, he was some few min- 

8 


226 


A ISTAMELESS SIK. 


utes before he spoke, and then, standing erect and proud 
before her, he said : 

‘‘It is a nameless sin; it is so much worse than any 
other crime 1 know that I call it a nameless sin/^ 

She bent her beautiful head in lowly humility before him. 
“ You were right in saying that I should never pardon 
you,^^ he said; “ I never shall. 

And the arms of the dying man clasped her more 
tightly, ^ 

“ I will try to soften his heart, Laure,^^ he said, “do 
not despair. 


CHAPTER XLVIL 

HEK PUKISHMENT. 

“ I WILL not reproach you,^^ said Lord Ulverston; “ 1 
should imagine that in your case reproaches are quite use- 
less. A woman hardened in crime could not have done 
worse. Pray, does the marquis know anything of this story 
yet?"'" 

“ Xo,"" said Laure; “ not one word. And you will not 
tell him? You may refuse to forgive me; I do not deserve 
it; but you will not tell him? He loves me, and trusts me 
— you will not tell him?"" 

“ I can hardly tell you what I shall do,"" said Lord 
Ulverston. “I am so completely bewildered! I know if 
I did what was right, I should quit this room now, and 
never look at your false face again."" 

She had resumed her place at Owen"s side. The worst 
was over for her; her story was told. 

“ Yes,"" she said, “ that would serve me right — that is 
what you should do. I could not expect to be loved twice 
in the same way. You will never forgive me. I know it; 
Owen, if I might but die with you!"" 

“ Death even does not covhr dishonor, "" said Lord Ulver- 
ston, gravely. “ I would , rather that you had died than 
have lived to tell me this shameful story. Death is prefera- 
ble to sin. Have you ever thought of the wrong you have 
done me? Thank Heaven no son of mine calls you moth- 
er!"" 

• Yet human passion and human rage fade in the. grand, 
majestic presence of death; the wrath and anger that filled 


A NAMELESS SIN. 


227 


Lord Ulversfcoti^s heart could not have found vent in words 
yet; the presence of death disarmed him. There was a 
light on that white face that did not come from earth; 
there was something, too, in the pathetic courage with 
which the dying man defended the beautiful erring woman 
that touched his heart. 

Owen held out his hand, and Lord Ulverston went nearer 
to him. There is a majesty in death that no one can re- 
sist. 

My lord,"^^ he pleaded, ‘^forgive her. She was so 
young and so beautiful — who and what was I that she 
should care for me?'’^ 

She knew the law of God and man; neither youth nor 
beauty forms the least excuse for having broken it,^^ he re- 
plied. 

‘^Forgive her, my lord; she was so young she did not 
think, she did not realize what she was doing; she was 
suffering so greatly! Oh, my lord, be pitiful to her! She 
has sinned, but she has suffered; be pitiful. You will ask 
pardon some day for sin; what will you do if it be refused 

Her sin has no name. She has deceived us both.^^ 

Yet I forgive her. I would not injure one hair on her 
dear head; I would not cause her one moment^s sorrow for 
the whole world. My lord, you are noble, I am plebeian; 
the most noble man forgives most completely; I forgive 
her. But for this illness I should have gone away, silent 
even under torture, and have left her; yet I love her 
dearer than my lit'e.^^ 

His hands trembled on her golden head. 

My lord, do not be less generous than 1. Only think 
what your refusal to pardon her would cost her — her good 
name, her position, everything in life! think of the effect 
upon her if you drive her to despair. Be pitiful to her. I 
could not rest in my grave if you refused to forgive her!’-^ 

‘‘ You plead for her, whom she has so greatly injured?^^ 
said Lord Ulverston. 

‘‘ I plead for her out of the greatness of my own love,^’ 
said Owen. I can not understand a love that is not 
strong enough for all pardon. Surely no mati living ever 
loved a woman as I have loved her, with strong human 
love, too; yet I ask you to forgive her, and to marry her 
when I shall be dead. » 

‘‘ Never !^^ cried Lord Ulverston — never !^^ 


228 


A KAMELESS SIN. 


But liis heart was softer than he believed it to be. The 
dying eyes fixed on his face, the dying voice pleading for 
her, the helpless hand lying on the golden head — all 
touched him. 

I can not die,^^ moaned Owen; my hour is come, 
but I can not die until you will forgive her. If I die while 
she is unpardoned, there will be no one to plead for her. 
Oh, my lord, for God^s sake pardon her!^^ 

Lord Ulverston bent over him. 

• You love her faithfully,^^ he said, and your love 
touches me. I will promise you one thing; I will remarry 
her; I will make her my wife for Lilyas sake; I can not 
promise that I will love her — that is beyond me; but she 
shall be my wife. Will that please you?^^ 

A smile that seemed all light came over his face. 

“ Yes,^^ he said, ‘‘ I am content, my lord; you will let 
her stay with me until I dier^^ 

Yes,^^ was the brief answer, as Lord Ulverston turned 
away, unable to bear the sight any longer. 

Then Owen gathered his wife and child both in his arms; 
it was for the first and last time; it was in death, not life, 
and he died when the morning sunbeam touched his face 
and formed a glory round his head. 

My lady^s secret was kept; indeed, the fact of her hus- 
band following her and staying with her seemed to take all 
thoughts of suspicion away from them. 

My lady went back in the early morning light, and Pat- 
tie let her in at the side-door. 

He is dead,^^ said Lady Ulverston, briefly; and she 
went to her own room. There she remained for many 
days; her visitors were told that she was ill, suffering from 
nervous fever, and they left her. What she suffered was 
best known to God and herself. 

Lord Ulverston acted nobly. He went himself to Rose- 
thorpe, and poor Owen was buried in the little green 
church-yard belonging to the church where he had married 
Laure. He erected a simple monument to his memory, 
and on it he placed his name: Owen Roden, and the 

only words at ter that were the two Latin ones: Semioer 
jidelis — alwa37's faithful. 

'Then when my lady recovered, they went away together 
and alone to some quiet little town in the north of Eng- 
land, and there they were married, ^ 


A KAMELESS SIN". 


229 


Lord XJlverston did another noble act: he amply pro- 
vided for the boy; he sent him to an excellent school, after 
which he bought him a commission in the army. He called 
him always by his father name— Owen Koden. 

So far all went well; my lady^’s secret was kept. Lord 
Ulverston never betrayed one word, so it would seem that 
her sin was never punished. 

This was her punishment: that her hubsand was five 
years before he learned to care for her again; that he was 
kind and attentive; but he never kissed her face or said a 
loving word to her; that for five long years he watched her 
constantly, he mistrusted her, he had no faith in her, he 
was often and for long weeks together absent from her. 
He seemed to change his character altogether. All this 
she had to bear in silence. While the world feted and 
caressed her, she was miserable beyond words. 

Her punishment increased as she grew older and wiser, 
better able to understand what she had done, better able to 
loathe herself for her nameless sin. 

Then w^hen the five years of trial had ended, her hus- 
band^s heart turned to her again, but there was a differ- 
ence that she keenly felt between this and his former love. 

She remembers her sin when she sees that he mistrusts 
her, when men speak of the falsity of wom^fn, when women 
laugh at their own errors. 

It never leaves her, the memory of the nameless sin. 
When her brow is circled by shining gems and the world 
bows before her, when the great and mighty of the land 
praise and honor her, she thinks of Owen, and raises her 
heart to Heaven for pardon of that Nameless Sin. 


THE EKD, 


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ALPHABETICAL LIST. 


202 Abbot, The. Sequel to “ The 
Monastery.” By Sir Walter 


Scott 20 

T88 Absentee, The. An Irish Story. 

By Maria Edgeworth 20 


829 Actor’s Ward, The. By the au- 
thor of “A Fatal Dower”... 20 
36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 20 
388 Addie’s Husband ; or. Through 
Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “Love or Lands?”. 10 
5 Admiral's Ward, The. By Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 
500 Adrian Vidal. By 'W, E. Norris 20 
477 Affinities. A Romance of To- 
day. By Mrs. Campbell-Praed 10 
413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Fen- 


imore Cooper 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “^Ouida” 10 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 

Half 20 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond Half 20 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 20 
14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The 
Duchess” ' 10 


274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 10 

086 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st half 20 

636 Alice liOrraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 2d half 20 

650 Alice; or, The Mysteries. (A Se- 
quel to “ Ernest Maltravers.”) 

By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 20 


462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. By Lewis Carroll. With 
forty - two illustrations by 


John Tenniel 20 

97 All in a Garden Fair. By Wal- 
ter Besant 20 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 
Other Tales. Mrs. Forrester. 10 
47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oli- 
phant 20 

2.53 Amazon, The. By Carl Vosmaer 10 
447 American Notes. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

176 An April Day. By Philippa Brit- 
tle .Jephson 10 

403 An English Squire. By C. R. 

Coleridge 20 

897 Ange. By Florence Marryat. . . 20 
648 Angel of the Bells, The. By F. 

Du Boisgobey . . . 20 

889 An Inland Voyage. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson 10 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

Brad don 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Buch- 
anan 20 

200 An Old Man’s Love. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

750 An Old Story of My Farming 


Days. Fritz Reuter. 1st half 20 
750 An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 2d half 20 
93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 
raphy 20 

843 Archie Lovell. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

395 Archipelago on Fire, The. By 

Jules Verne 10 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 


S THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Editioj^. 


247 Armourer’s Prentices, The. By 


Charlotte M. Yonj^e 10 

813 Army Society. Life in a Garri- 
son Town.' By J. S. Winter.. 10 
224 Arundel Motto, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

541 “ As it Fell Upon a Day,” by 
“The Duchess,” and Uncle 

Jack, by Walter Besant 10 

560 Asphodel. Miss M. E. Braddon 20 
540 At a High Price. By E. Werner 20 
352 At Any Cost. By Edw. Garrett 10 
.564 At Bay. By Mrs. Alexander. .. 10 
528 At His Gates. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

Warden 10 

287 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

923 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 

edition) 20 

737 Aunt Rachel. By David Christie 

Murray 10 

760 Aurelian ; or, Rome in the Third 

Century. By William Ware. 20 
74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

730 Autobiography of Benjamin 

Franklin, The 10 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 
(Translated from the French 
of Fortune Du Boisgobey.) 

First half 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 
(Translated from the French 
of Fortuu#! Du Boisgobey.) 

Second half 20 

241 Baby’s Grandmother, The. By 


342 Baby, The. By “ The Duchess” 10 

611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 

443 Bachelor of the Albany, The. . . 10 
683 Bachelor Vicar of Newforth, 

The. By Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe 20 
871 Bachelor’s Blunder, A. By W. 

E. Norris 20 

65 Back to the Old Home. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 10 

847 Bad to Beat. By Hawley Smart 10 
834 Ballroom Repentance, A. By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

551 Barbara Heathcote's Trial. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

99 Barbara’s History. By Amelia 

B. Edwards " 20 

234 Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

653 Barren Title, A. T. W. Speight 10 
731 Bavou Bride, The. By Mrs. 

Mary E. Bryan 20 


794 Beaton’s Bargain. By Mrs. Al- 
exander 20 

717 Beau Tancrede; or, the Mar- 
riage Verdict. By Alexander 

Dumas ... 20 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

86 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 20 
929 Belle of Lynn. The; or. The 
Miller’s Daughter. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. 

Riddell 20 

581 Betrothed, The. (I Promessi 

Sposi,) Alessandro Manzoni. 20 
862 Betty’s Visions. By Rhoda 

Broughton 10 


620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea. By M. Linskill 20 
466 Between Two Loves. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 


“Dora Thorne” 20 

476 Between Two Sins; or, Married 
in Haste. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 

the author of “A Golden Bar ” 10 

308 Bejmnd Pardon 20 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 
geant 10 

553 Birds of Prey. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

320 Bit of Human Nature, A. By 

David Christie Murray 10 

411 Bitter Atonement, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

430 Bitter Reckoning, A. By the au- 
thor of “ By (IJrooked Paths ” 10 
353 Black Dwarf, The. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

302 Blatchford Bequest, The. By 
Hugh Conway, author of 

“Called Back” 10 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

106 Bleak House. Bj’^ Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

968 Blossom and Fruit; or, Ma- 
dame’s Ward. By the author 

of “ Wedded Hands ” 20 

842 Blue-Stocking, A. By Mrs. An- 
nie Edwards 10 

492 Booties’ Baby ; or, Mignon. By 

J. S. Winter. Illustrated 10 


935 Borderland. Jessie Fothergill. 20 
429 Boulderstone ; or. New Men and 

Old Populations. By W. Sime 10 
830 Bound by a Spell. Hugh Con- 
way, author of “ Called Back” 20 
394 Bravo, The. By J. Fenimore 


Cooper 20 

299 Bride from the Sea, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

362 Bride of Lammermoor, The. 

By Sir Walter Scott .. 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBKAKY— Pocket Edition. 


259 Bride of Monte- Cristo, The. A 
Sequel to “The Count of 
Monte-Cristo.” By Alexan- 

der Dumas XC”' 

300 Bridge of Love, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ’’ • • 10 

907 Bright Star of Life, The. 9y 

B. L. Farjeon fO 

642 Britta. By George Temple. .... 10, 
76 Broken Heart, A; or, AVife in 
Name Onlv. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

54 Broken Wedding-Ring, A. By 
Cliarlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

898 Bulldog and Butterfly, and J ulia 
and Her Romeo, by David 
Christie Murray, and Romeo 
and Juliet, by William Black. 20 
317 By Mead and Stream. By Chas. 

Gibbon 20 

58 By the Gate of the Sea. By D. 
Christie Murray 10 

739 Caged Lion, The. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 
602 Camiola; A Girl With a Fortune. 

By 'Justin McCarthy 20 

186 Canon’s Ward, The. By James 

Payn 20 

149 Captain’s Daughter, The. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

159 Captain Norton’s Diary, and 
A Moment of Madness. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

555 Cara Roma. By Miss Grant. ... 20 
711 Cardinal Sin, A. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “ Called 

Back ” 20 

502 Carriston’s Gift. By Hugh Con- 

wa 5 % author of “Called Back 10 
917 Case of Reuben Malachi, The. 

By H. Sutherland Edwards.. 10 
937 Cashel Byron’s Profession. By 

George Bernard Shaw .^0 

942 Cash on Delivery. By F. Du 

BoisgoVjey 20 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 10 

770 Castle of Otranto, The. By 

Horace Walpole 10 

746 Cavalry Life; or. Sketches and 
Stories in Barracks and Out. 

By J. S. Winter 20 

419 Chainbearer, The; or. The Li t- 
tlepage Manuscripts. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

783 Chantry House. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

790 Chaplet of Pearls, The ; or, The 
White and Black Ribaumont. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 
790 Chaplet of Pearls, The ; or. The 
White and Black Ribaumont. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 


212 

212 

554 

61 

588 

713 

719 

882 

920 

676 

657 

631 
507 

632 
949 

33 

782 

782 

499 

493 

769 

221 

523 

547 

104 

104 

598 

262 

262 

687 

590 

78T 


Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

First half 20 

Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

Second half 20 

Charlotte’s Inheritance. (A Se- 
quel to “ Birds of Prey.”) By 

Miss M. E. Brad don 20 

Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. 

Rowson 

Cherry. By the author of A 

Great Mistake” 10 

“ Cherry Ripe.” By Helen B. 

20 

Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 

By Lord Byron 10 

Children of Gibeon. By Walter 

Besant 20 

Child of the Revolution, A. By 
the author of “ Mademoiselle 

Mori ” V a” k' 

Child’s History of England, A. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

Christmas Angel. By B. L. Far- 

Ch?istoweli. By R.’d. Blackmore 20 
Chronicles of the Cauongate, 
and Other Stories. By Sir 

Walter Scott u;--;' 

Clara Vaughan. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

Claribel’s Love Story ; or. Love s 
Hidden Depths. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 

Clique of Gold, The. By Emile 

Gaboriau 

Closed Door, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

Closed Doo**, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half ;... 20 

Cloven Foot, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon - 20 

Colonel Enderby’s Wife. By 

Lucas Malet L" 

Cometh Up as a Flow^er. By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

Coinin’ Thro’ the Rye. By Helen 

B. Mathers /'m/" 

Consequences of a Duel, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 

Coquette’s Conquest, A. By 

20 

Coral Pin,’The.‘ By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. 1st half ^ 

Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. 2d half 20 

Corinna. By “Rita” 10 

Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part I 20 
Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

By Alexand«r Dumas. Part H 20 
Country Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

Courting of Mary Smith, The. 

By F. W. Robinson ^.0 

Court Royal. A Story of Cross 
Currents. By S. Baring-Gould 


4 


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258 Cousins. ByL. B. Walford 

G49 Cradle and Spade. By William 

Sime 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackinore. First half 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackinore. Second half 

938 Cranford. By Mrs. Gaskell 

108 Cricket on the Hearth, The. 

By Charles Dickens 

376 Crime of Christmas Day, The. 
By the author of “ My Ducats 

and My Daughter ” 

706 Crimson Stain, A. By Annie 

Bradshaw 

629 Cripps, the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 

851 Cry of Blood, The. By F, Du 

Boisgobey. First half 

851 Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. Second half 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. By 
Jolm Coleman. Illustrated. 
544 Cut by the County: or, Grace 
Darnel. Miss M. E. Braddon 
826 Cynic Fortune. By D. Christie 
Murray 


446 Dame Durden. By “ Rita ”... 
34 Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. First half 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. Second half 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway 
609 Dark House, The : A Knot Un- 
raveled. By G. Manville Fenn 
81 Daughter of Heth, A. By Will- 
iam Black 

251 Daughter of the Stars, The, and 
Other Tales. Hugh Conwa 3 % 

author of “ Called Back ” 

22 David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. I 

22 David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. II 

9.59 Da wn. By H. Rider Haggard. . 
527 Days of M}" Life. The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

305 Dead Heart, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

374 Dead Man’s Secret, The ; or, The 
Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon. . 
567 Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

946 Dead Secret.The. Wilkie Collins 
286 Deldee ; or. The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 

744 Diana Carew ; or. For a Wom- 
an's Sake, By Mrs. Forrester 
350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 

250 Diana’s Discipline; or. Sun- 
shine and Roses, By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 


478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter, By Miss M. E, Braddon. 

Part 1 20 

478 Diavola: or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

Part II 20 

^ Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen. By Jules Verne 20 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart. By “ The 

Duchess ” 20 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 
drew Lang 10 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 

jendie 10 

894 D o c t o r C u p i d. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Betham- 

Ed wards 20 

108 Doctor Marigold. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

529 Doctor’s Wife, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

721 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester. . . 20 
107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half., 20 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 
Donald 20 


671 Don Gesualdo. By“Ouida.”.. 10 
779 Doom ! An Atlantic Episode. 

By Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 
51 Dora Thorne. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 20 

284 Doris. By ” The Duchess ” 10 

820 Doris’s Fortune. l?y Florence 

Warden 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

665 Dove in the Eagle’s Nest, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

585 Drawn Game, A. By Basil 20 

151 Ducie Diamonds, The. By C. 

Blatherwick « 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 
er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey. ByMissM. E. 

Braddon 10 

855 Dynamiter, The. By Robert 
Louis Stevenson and Fanny 
Van de Grift Stevenson 20 


465 Earl’s Atonement, The. By 
Charlotte M, Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

8 East Lynne. Mrs. Henry Wood 20 
827 Efifie Ogilvie. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
960 Elizabeth’s Fortune. By Bertha 

9’homas 20 

685 England under Gladstone, 1880« 
—1885. By Justin H. McCar- 
thy, M.P 20 

.521 Entangled. By E. Fairfax 20 

Byrrue 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmore 20 


20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 . 

10 

10 

20 

20 

20 

10 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

10 


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5 


118 Eric Deriiip:. “ The Duchess ” 10 
90 Erliufr the Bold. . By 11 . M. Bal- 

lantyne 10 

90 Ernest Maltra vers. BySirE.Bul- 

wer Lytton 20 

786 Ethel Mildmay’s Follies. By 
author of “ Petite’s Romance ” 20 
162 Eug:ene Aram. By Sir E. Buhrer 

Lytton 20 

764 Evil Genius, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

470 Evelyn’s Foll 3 ^. B}’" Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of ’‘Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

62 Executor, The. B^- Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

13 E 3 ' re’s Acquittal. By Helen B. 
Mathers 10 


319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 
877 Faciuf< the Footlights. By Flor- 
ence Manyat 20 

538 Fair Country Maid, A. By E. 

Fairfax B\ rrne . . . . 20 

905 Fair-Haired Alda, The. By Flor- 
ence Marrvat 20 

261 Fair Maid, A. By F. W. Robin- 
son 20 

417 Fair Maid of Perth, The; or, 

St. Valentine’s Day. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

626 Fair Mystery, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Tliorne ” 20 

727 F'air Women. By I\lrs. Forrester 20 
30 Faith and Unfaith. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

819 Fallen Idol, A. By F. Anstey... 20 
294 False Vow, The; or, Hilda. By 
Charlotte M, Braeme, author 

of ” Dora Thorne ” 10 

928 False Vow. The; or. Hilda. By 
Cliarlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne.” (Large 

type edition) 20 

543 Family Affair, A. By Hugh 
Con.wa 3 % author of “ Called 

Back ” 20 

338 Family Difficulty, The. By Sa- 
rah Doudney 10 

690 Fai* From the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy 20 

798 Fashion of this AVorld, The. By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

Griffiths 20 

246 Fatal Dower, A. By the Author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” .... 20 

299 Fatal Lilies, The. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

548 Fatal Marriage, A, and The 
Shadow in the C orner. Bj’’ 

Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

693 Felix Holt, the Radical. By 
George Eliot 20 


542 Fenton’s Quest. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

7 File No. 113. By Emile Gabo- 

riau 20 

575 Finger of Fate, The. By Cap- 
tain Mayne Reid 20 

95 Fire Brigade, The. By R. M. 

Ballantvne 10 

674 First Person Singular. By Da- 
vid Christie Murray 20 

199 Fisher Village, The. By Anne 

Beale 

579 Flower of Doom, The, and 10 
Other Stories. B}" M. Betham- 

Ed wards 10 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 
gle for Love. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

156 “ For a Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin . 20 

173 Foreigners, The. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay .. 20 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Si)eight 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 
608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey 20 

712 For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 

Allen 20 

586 “ For Percival.” By Margaret 

Veley 20 

171 Fortune’s Wheel. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

468 Fortunes, Good and Bad, of a 
Sewing-Girl, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Stanley 10 

216 Foul Plav. By Charles Reade. 20 
438 Found Out. By Helen B. 

Mathers 10 


333 Frank Fairlegh ; or. Scenes 


From, the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 
805 Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 1st half 20 

805 Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 2d half 20 

226 Friendship. By “Ouida” 20 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or 
From Out the Gloom. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or, 
From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 

type edition) 20 

732 From Olympus to Hades. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

288 From Out the Gloom; or. From 
Gloom to Sunlight. By (^’har« 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

955 From Out the Gloom; or. From 
Gloom to Sunlight. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Laj-getype 

edition) 20 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 
Romance. By Hawley Smart 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


2% Gambler’s Wife, The 20 

971 Garrison Gossip: Gathered in 
Blankhampton. John Strange 

Winter 20 

772 Gascoyne, tlie Sandal-Wood 

Trader. By 11. ]\[. Ba’lantt ne 20 
549 George Caulfield’s Journey. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

365 George Cliristy; or. The Fort- 
unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 

.Pastor 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 

208 Ghost of Charlotte Cray, The, 
and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marrvat 10 

613 Ghost’s Touch, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 


225 Giant’s Robe, The. ByF. Anste}- 20 
300 Gilded Sin, A, and A Bridge of 


Ijove. By Cliarlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

508 Girl at the Gate, The. By 

Wilkie Collins 10 

954 Girl's Heart, A. By the author 

of “Nobody’s Darling ” 20 

867 Girls of Feversham, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

644 Girton Girl, A. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

140 Glorious Fortune, A. By Wal- 
ter Besant 10 

647 Goblin Gold. By May Crom- 

melin 10 

450 Godfrey Helstone. By Georgi- 

ana M. Craik 20 

972 Gold Elsif^. By E. Marlitt 20 

911 Golden Bells: A Peal in Seven 

Changes. By R. E. Francillon 20 
153 Golden Calf, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

306 Golden Dawn, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 10 


656 Golden Flood, The. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior. . 10 
172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 
292 Golden Heart, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 


Thorne”. 10 

916 Golden Hope, The. By W. Clark 

Russell 20 

667 Golden Lion of Granpere, The. 

By Anthony Trollope 20 

758 “ Good-bye, Sweetheart!” By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

356 Good Hater, A. By Frederick 

Boyle. 20 

801 Good-Natured Man, The. By 

Oliver Goldsmith 10 

710 Greatest Heiress in England, 
The. By Mrs. 01iphant.=?>, ... 20 
439 Great Expectations. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

135 Great Heiress, A : A Fortune in 
Seven Cliecks. By R. E. Fran- 
cillon 10 

244 Great Mistake, A. By the author 
of “Cherry” 20 


170 Great Treason, A. By Blary 

IIoppus. First half 20 

170 Great Treason, A. By Mary 

iioppus. Second half 20 

751 Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 1st half 20 
751 Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 2d half 20 
138 Green Pastuies and Piccadilly. 

By Wm. Black 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 

By Charles Reade 20 

677 Griselda. By the author of “ A 

Woman’s Love-Story ” 20 

469 Guiding Star, A; or, Lady Darn- 
er’s Secret. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

896 Guilty River, The. By Wilkie 
Collins 10 


597 Haco the Dreamer. By William 

Sime 10 

668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

663 Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover 20 
84 Hard 4’imes. By Chas. Dickens 10 
622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. By 

Anthony Trollope 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever .* 20 

569 Harry Muir. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
873 Harvest of Wild Oats, A. By 

Florence Many at 20 

785 Haunted Chamber, The. By 

“ The Duchess ■’ 10 

958 Haunted Life. A; or. Her Terri- 
ble Sin. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

169 Haunted Man, The. By Charles 


Dickens 10 

533 Hazel Kirke. By Marie Walsh 20 
966 He, by the author of “ King 
Solomon’s Wives and A 
Siege Baby and Childhood’s 
Memories, hy J. S. Winter... 20 
385 Headsman, The; or, The Ab- 
baye des Vignerons. By J. 

.Fenimore Cooper 20 

811 Head Station, The. By Mrs. 

Campbell-Praed 20 

572 Healey. By Jessie Fothergill. 20 
167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

444 Heart of Jane Warner, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

391 Heart of Mid-Lothian, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 
Deuce. By David Christie 

Murray 20 

741 Heiress of Hilldrop, The; or. 
The Romance of a Young 
Girl. By Cliarlotte M. Braeane, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 
823 Heir of the Ages, The. By James 
Payn 20 


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7 


C80 Presumptive, The. By 

Florence Many at 20 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 
Other Tales. Mrs. Henry 

Wood 10 

535 Henrietta’s Wish; or, Domi- 
neering. By Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

806 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. First half 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. Second half 20 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tjtler 10 

814 Heritage of Langdale, The. By 

Mrs. Alexander 20 

956 Her Johnnie. By Violet Whyte 20 
860 Her Lord and Master. By Flor- 
ence Marryat ' 20 

297 Her Marriage Vow; or, Hilary’s 
Folly. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of Dora Thorne ”.. . 10 
953 Her Marriage Vow; or, Hilary’s 
Folly. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Tliorne.” 

(Large type edition) 20 

576 Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

824 Her Own Doing. W. E. Norris 10 
9.58 Her Terrible Sin; or, A Haunted 
Life. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
authoi- of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 
190 Hidden Penis. Mary Cecil Ha}' 20 

518 Hidden Sin, The. A Novel 20 

933 Hidden Terror, A. By Mary 

Albert 20 

297 Hilary's Folly; oi-. Her Mar- 
riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme. author of “Dora 

Thorne” 10 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her ]\Iar- 
riage Vow.' By Charlotte ]M. 
Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 
294 Hilda; or. The P'alse Vow. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora 9'horne ” 10 

928 Hilda; or. The liaise Vow. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 

type edition) 20 

®58 History of a Week, The. By 

Mrs. L. B. Walford .’. 10 

165 History of Henry Esmond, The. 

By William M. Thackeray ,. . 20 
461 His Wedded Wife. By author 

of “ A Fatal Dower ” 20 

904 Holy Rose, The. By Walter Be- 
sant 10 

378 Homeward Bound; or, Tlie 

Chase. By J. F. (hooper 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“Homeward Bound.”) By J. 

, Fenimore Cooper '. . . . 20 

800 Hopes and Feai’s; or, Scenes 
from tlie Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. Ist half 20 


Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 
Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

Houp-La. By John Strange 

Winter. (Illustrated) 10 

House Divided Against Itself, 

A. B}’ Mrs. Oliphant 20 

House on the Marsh, The. By 

F. Warden 10 

House on the Moor, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant : 20 

House. Party, A. By“Ouida”. 10 
House Thai Jack Built, The. 

By Alison 10 

How to be Happ 5 ^ Though Mar- 
ried, By a Graduate in the 

University of Matrimon}' 20 

Hjirrish; A Study, By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

Husband’s Story, A 10 


Ichabod. A Portrait. By Bertha 

Thomas 10 

Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

If Love Be Love. D. Cecil Gibbs 20 
1 Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. P’orrester 20 

Impressions of d’heophrastus 

Such, By George Eliot 10 

Ingledew House. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

In a Grass Country. By Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron . . . '. 20 

In Cupid’s Net. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

In Durance Vile, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 
In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Be.sant 10 

In Mareinma. By “ Ouida.” 1st 

half 20 

In Maremma. By “ Ouida.” 2d 

half 20 

Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 

Half 20 

Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond Half 20 

In Peril and Privation. By 

James Payn 10 

In Quarters with the 25th (The 
Black Horse) Dragoons. By 

J. S. Winter 10 

In Shallow Waters. By Annie 

Armitt 20 

In Silk Attire. By William Black 20 
In the Golden Days. By Edna 

Lvall 20 

In the Middle Watch. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

In the We.st Countrie. By May 
Cronimelin 20 


800 

552 

600 

703 

248 

351 

874 

481 

754 

748 

198 

389 

188 

807 

713 

762 

303 

796 

304 

404 

324 

672 

672 

604 

604 

577 

638 

759 

39 

738 

682 

452 


8 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 
ilton Aid6 10 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

233 “ I Say No;” or, The Love-Let- 
ter Answered. By Wilkie Col- 


235 “ It is Never Too Late to Mend.” 

By Charles Reade 20 

28 Ivauhoe. By Sir Walter Scott. 20 

534 Jack. By Alphonse Daudet — 20 
752 Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 

By Juliana Homtio Ewing. . . 10 
416 Jack Tier ; or. The Florida Reef. 

By J. Feniinore Cooper 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 1st half 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 2d half 20 

519 James Gordon's Wife, A Novel 20 
15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bronte 20 
728 Janet’s Repentance. By George 

Eliot 10 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 20 

941 Jess. By H. Rider Haggard .. . 20 
841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 

767 Joan. By Rhoda Broughton. . 20 
914 Joan Wentworth. B3’ Katha- 
rine S. Macquoid 20 

357 John. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

MaxO’Rell 10 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. By a “Brutal 

Saxon ” 10 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. By 

Miss Mulock 20 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

694 John Maidment. By Julian 

Sturgis 20 

570 John Marchmont’s Legacy. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard's Daughter. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

619 Joy; or, The Light of Cold- 
Home Ford. By May Crom- 

melin 20 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 
Affairs and Other Advent- 
ures. By William Black 20 

332 Judith Wynne. By author of 

“ Lady Lovelace ” 20 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

561 Just As I Am ; or, A Living Lie. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 


832 Kidnapped. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 20 

857 Kildee; or, The Sphinx of the 
Red House. By Mary E. 

Bryan. First hafif 20 

85? Kildee; or, The Sphinx of the 
Red House. By Mary E. 
Bryan. Second half . . . . . 20 


Kilmeny. Bj" William Black. . 20 
King Arthur. Not a Love Story. 

By Miss Mulock 20 

King Solomon’s Mines. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

King Solomon’s Wives; or. The 
Phantom Mines. By Hj’der 

Ragged. (Illustrated) 20 

Klytia : A Story of Heidelberg 
Castle. By George Taylor. .. 20 

Lady Audley’s Secret. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

Lady Branksmere. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce; or, 
Put Asunder. By Chailotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

Lady Clare ; or. The IMa.ster of 
the Forges. From the French 

of Georges Ohnet 10 

Lady Darner’s Secret; or, A 
Guiding Star. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

Lady Diana’s Pride. By Char- 
lotte 1\I. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thornn 20 

Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The Mi- 
ser’s Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 20 

Lady Gwendoline’s Dream. By 
Charlotte 1\I. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

Lady Lovelace. By the author 

of “Judith Wynne” 20 

Lady Muriel's Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

Lad.y of Lyons, The. Founded 
on the Play of that title by 

Lord Lytton 10 

Lady’s Mile, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Ladv Val worth’s Diamonds. By 

“the Duchess ” 20 

Lady With the Rubies, The. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

Lancaster's Choice. By Blrs. 

Alex. BIcVeigh Bliller 20 

Lancelot Ward, BI.P. By George 

Temple 10 

Land Leaguers, The. By An- 
thony Trollope 20 

Last Days at Apswich 10 

Last Days of Pompeii, The. By 
Bulwer Lytton 20 


Last of the Barons, The, By Sir 
E. Bulwer Lytton. 1st half. . 20 
Last of the Barons, The. B.y Sir 
E. Bulwer Lytton. 2d half.. 20 
Last of the Mohicans, The. By 

J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

Late Bliss Hollingford, The. 

By Rosa Blulholland 10 

Laurel Vane; or. The Girls' 
Conspiracy. By Blrs. Alex. 
BlcVeigh Bliller 20 


126 

808 

753 

970 

435 

35 

?33 

516 

219 

469 

931 

268 

305 

506 

155 

161 

497 

875 

652 

269 

599 

32 

684 

40 

130 

130 

60 

921 

267 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY-Eocket Edition. 


9 


455 Lazarus in London. By F. W. 

Robinson 20 

839 Leah : A Woman of Fashion. 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

386 Led Astray ; or, “ La Petite 

Comtease.” Octave Fenillet. 10 
353 Lejreud of Montrose, A. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

164 Leila ; or. The Siege of Grenada. 

By Buhver Lytton 10 

885 Les Miserables. Victor Hugo. 

Part 1 20 

885 Les Mis6rables. Victor Hugo. 

Part II 20 

885 Les Miserables. Victor Hugo. 

Part III 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

562 Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- 
road of Life. By Frank E. 

Smedley 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
C’huzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

774 Life and Travels of Mungo 

Park, The 10 

698 Life’s Atonement, A. By David 

Cliristie Murray 20 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss. By “Rita”. 20 
807 Like no Other Love. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

402 Lilliesleaf; or. Passages in the 
Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer 
of Boston. By J. Feuimore 

Cooper 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Fir.st half 20 

91 Litlle Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

279 Little Goldie : A Story of Wom- 
an’s Love. By Mrs. Sumner 

Hayden 20 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 
179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Far jeon 10 

45 Little Pilgrim, A. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant 10 

272 Little Savage, The. By Captain 

Marryat 10 

111 Little School-master Mark, The. 

By J. H. Shorthouse 10 

899 I>ittle Stepson, A. By Florence 

Marryat 10 

878 Little Tu’penny. ByS.Baring- 

Gould : 10 

804 Living or Dead. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back ” 20 
919 Locksley Hall Sixty Years Af- 
ter, etc. By Alfred, Lord 


Tennyson, P.L.. D.C.L 10 

797 Look Before You Leap. By 
Mrs. Alexander 20 


92 Lord Ljume’s Choice. By Chai-- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 


“Dora Thorne” 10 

749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. By 

Mabel Collins 20 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. First half 20 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. Second half 20 

473 Lost Sou, A. By Mary Linskill. 10 
354 Lottery of Life, The. A Story 
of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham .. 20 
453 Lottery Ticket, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobe}^ 20 

179 Louisa. By Katharine S. Blac- 

quoid 20 

742 Love and Life. By Cliarlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

273 Love and Mirage : or, TheAVait- 
ing on an Island. By M. 

Be tham-Ed wards 10 

232 Love and Money; or, A Peril- 
ous Secret. By Chas. Reade. 10 
146 Love Finds the AVay, and Other 
Stories. By AValter Besant 

and James Rice 10 

306 Love for a Day. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

313 Lover’s Creed, The. By Mrs. 

Cashel-Hoey 20 

893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. First half 20 

893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. Second half 20 

573 Love’s 'Harvest. B. L. Farjeou 20 
949 Love’s Hidden Depths; or, 
Claribel’s Love Story. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 


of. “Dora Thorne”. 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot. By Wilkie 

Collins. 10 

757 Love’s Martyr. By Laurence 

Alma Tadema 10 

291 Love’s Warfaj e. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

73 Love’s Victory; or. Redeemed 
by Love. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and 
Eric Dering. “ The Duchess ” 10 
582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 

Mrs. J. H. Needell 20 

589 Luck of the Darrells, The. By 

James Pay n 20 

901 Lucky Disappointment, A. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

370 Lucy Orofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 


44 Macleod of Dare. Wm. Black. 20 
526 Madame De Presnel. By E. 


Frances Poynter 20 

345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

78 Madcap Violet. By Wm. Black 20 


10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAKY— Pocket Edition. 


510 Mad Love, A. By the author of 

“Lover and Lord’' 

69 Madolin’s Lover. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne’’ 

341 Madolin Rivers; or, The Little 
Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 
■ the Scottish Reformation. By 

Mrs. Olipliant 

494 Maiden All Forlorn, A, and Bar- 
bara. By “ The Duchess ”... 
64 Maiden Fair, A. Charles Gibbon 
121 Maid of Athens. By Justin 

McCarthy 

633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 1st half 

633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d lialf 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 

803 Major Frank. By A. L, G. Bos- 

boom-Toussaint. : 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. First half 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. Second half 

277 Man of His Word, A. By W. 

E. Norris 

688 Man of Honor, A. By John 

Strange Winter. Illustrated. 
217 Man She Cared For, The. By 

F. W. Robinson 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

755 Margery Daw. A Novel 

922 Marjorie. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 
the Bar. G. J. Whyte-Melville 
773 Mark of Cain, The. By Andrew 

Lang 

334 Marriage of Convenience, A. 

By Harriett Jay 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 

476 Married in Haste; or, Between 
Two Sins. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 

615 Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 

646 Master of the Mine, The. By 

Robert Buchanan 

825 Master Passion, The. By Flor- 
ence Marry at 

578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 
Verne. (Illustrated.) Parti. 
678 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 
Verne. (Illustrated.) Part II 
578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 
Verne. (Illustrated.) Part lU 
398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 
By Robert Buchanan 


723 Mauleverer’s Millions. By T. 

Wemyss Reid 20 

380 May Blossom ; or, Betwe#^n Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee 20 

791 Mayor of Casterbridge, The. By 

Thomas Hardy 20 

337 Blemoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

771 Mental Struggle, A. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or, Tne 
Voj^age to Catliay. By J. Fen- 

imore Cooper 20 

406 Merchant’s Clerk, The. By Sam- 
uel Warren 10 

940 Merry Men, The, and Other Tales 
and Fables. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

First lialf 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

Second half 20 

187 Midnight Sun, The. ByFredrika 

Bremer 10 

763 Midshipman, The, Marmaduke 

Merry. Wm. H. G. Kingston. 20 
729 Mignon. By Mrs. Forrester... 20 
492 Mignon ; or. Booties’ Baby. By 

J. S. AVinter. Illustrated 10 

876 Mignon’s Secret. John Strange 

AVinter 10 

692 Mikado, The. and other Comic 
Operas. AA’^ritten by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 

Sullivan 20 

390 Blildred Trevanion. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

414 Miles AA^allingford. (Sequel to 
“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 

Fenimore Cooper... 20 

3 Mill on the Floss, The. By 

George Eliot 20 

929 Miller’s Daughter, The; or. The 
Belle of Lynn. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

157 Milly’sHero. By F. AV. Robinson 20 

182 Millionaire, The 20 

205 Minister’s Wife, The. By Mrs. 

, Oliphant 30 

399 Sliss Brown. By A^ernon Lee . . 20 
369 MissBretherton. B}^ Mrs. Hum- 
phry AVard 10 

866 Miss Harrington’s Husband; or. 
Spiders of Society. By Flor- 
ence Marryat ? 20 

245 Miss Tommy. By Miss Mulock 10 
315 Mistletoe Bough, The. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

618 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

890 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 
mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBEAKY— Pocket Edition. 


11 


298 Mitchelhiirst Place. By Marga- 
ret Veley 10 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

887 Modern Teleinaehus, A. By 

Charlotte M. Youge 20 

881 Mohawks. Miss M. E. Braddon 20 
2 Molly Bawn. The Duchess ” 20 
159 Moment of Madness, A. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

125 Monarch of Mincing Lane, The. 

By William Black 20 

201 Monastery, The, By Sir "Walter 

Scott 20 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

431 Monikins, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. II 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

102 Moonstone, The. Wilkie Collins 20 
303 More Bitter than Death. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

By Queen Victoria 10 

116 Moths. By “Ouida” 20 

495 Mount Royal. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. By F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. 

G. Wightwick 10 

675 Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thacke- 
ray..’ 20 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. “ The Duchess.” 

(Large type edition) 20 

950 Mrs. Geoffrey. “The Duchess” 10 
606 iVlrs. Holly er. By Georgiana M. 

Craik 20 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime 10 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

Rhoda Broughton 10 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

256 Mr. Smith: A Part of His Life. 

By B. L. Walford 20 

635 Murder or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

596 My Ducats and My Daughter. 

By the author of “ The Crime 

of Christmas Day” 20 

848 My Friend Jim. By W. E. Norris 10 
405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

726 My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester.. 20 
799 My Lady* Gi’een Sleeves. By 

Helen B. Mathers 20 

623 My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

724 My Lord and My Lady. By 
Mrs. Forrester 20 


863 “ My’' Own Child.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

504 My* Poor Wife. By the author 

of “ Addie’s Husband ” 10 

433 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

861 My Sister the Actress. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Parti 20 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part II 20 

366 Mysterious Hunter, The: or, 
The Man of Death. By Capt. 

T. P on 

662 Mystery of Allan GraleVThe. By " 

Isabella Fyvie Mayo 20 

969 Mystery of Colde Fell, The; or, 
Not Proven. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

454 Mystery of Edwin Drood, The. 

By Chas. Dickens 20 

514 Mystery of Jessy Page, The, 
and 'other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

43 Mystery of Orcival, The. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

255 Mystery, The. By Mrs. Hemy 

Wood 20 

725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

By Silvio Pellico 10 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 

of “Doctor Edith Romney ”. 20 
666 My Young Alcides. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 20 


574 Nabob, The : A Story of Paris- 
ian Life and Manners. By Al- 
phonse Daudet 20 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton. 20 
509 Nell Haffenden. By Tighe Hop- 
kins 20 

936 Nellie’s Memories. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

181 New Abelard, The. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

856 New Arabian Nights. By Rob- 
ert Louis Stevenson 20 

464 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 

I... 20 

464 Newcomes, The. By WTlliam 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 

H 20 

52 New Magdalen, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

909 Nine of Hearts, The. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

105 Noble Wife, A. John Saunders 20 

864 “ No Intentions.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

565 No Medium. By Annie Thomas 10 


12 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAEY— Pocket Edition. 


290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 

595 North Country Maid, A. By 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 

812 No Saint. By Adeline Sergeant 
168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 

969 Not Proven; or, The Mystery 
of Colde Fell. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 

765 Not Wisely, But Too Well. By 

Rhoda Broughton 

614 No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths. . . 

766 No. XIII. ; or, I'he Story of the 

Lost Vestal. Emma Marshall 
640 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 
M. Yonge 


425 Oak-Openings, The; or. The 
Bee-Hunter. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 

211 Octoroon, The. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 
ries. By Florence Marryat. . 
10 Old Curiosity Shop, The. By 

Charles Dickens 

410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant 

858 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. By E. 

Marlitt 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money. Bj^ 

Mary Cecil Haj" 

645 Oliver’s Bride. By Mrs. Oliphant 
41 Oliver Twist. By Chas, Dickens 

605 Ombra. By Mrk Oliphant 

280 Omnia Vauitas. A. Tale of So- 
ciety. By IMrs. Forrester 

883 Once Again. By Mrs. Forrester 
143 One False, Both Fair. By John 

B. Harwood 

342 One New Year’s Eve. By “ The 

Duchess ” 

840 One Thing Needful-; or. The 
Penalty of Fate. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 
Minor. By Captain Fred Bur- 
naby 

498 Only a Clod. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 

655 Open Door, The. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 
12 Other People’s Money. By 

Emile Gabon au 

639 Othmar, By “ Ouida ” 

859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth Century 

Idyl, and The Prince of the 100 

Soups. By Vernon Lee 

838 Ought We to Visit Her? By 
Mrs. Annie Edwards.. 


131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 


Dickens. First half 20 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 

by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 
925 Outsider, The. Hawley Smart 20 


870 Out of His Reckoning. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 


530 Pair of Blue Eyes, A. By Thom- 
as Hardy 20 

587 Parson o’ Dumford, The. By 

G. Manville Fenn 

238 Pascarel. By “Ouida” 

822 Passion Flower, A. A Novel... 

517 Passive Crime, A, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 

886 Pastou Carew, Millionaire and 
Miser. Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 

309 Pathfinder, The. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 

720 Paul Clifford. By Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton, Bart 

571 Paul Carew’s Story. By Alice 

Corny ns Carr 

525 Paul Vai'gas, and Other Stories. 

By Hugh Conway, author of 

“Called Back” 

449 Peeress and Player. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 

613 Percy and the Prophet. By 

Wilkie Collins 

776 Pere Goriot. By H. De Balzac 
314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill — 

965 Periwinkle. By Arnold Gray. . 

508 Perpetual Curate, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

133 Peter the Whaler. By William 

H. G. Kingston 

868 Petronel. By Florence Marryat 
392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir 

Walter Scott 

326 Phan tastes. A Faerie Romance 
for Men and Women. By 

George Macdonald 

56 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

845 Philip Earnscliffe ; or, The Mor- 
als of May Fair. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 

669 Philosophy of Whist, The. By 

William Pole 

903 Phyllida. By Florence Marryat 
16 Phyllis. By “ The Duchess ”. . 

372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 
thor of “ His Wedded Wife ”. 10 
537 Piccadilly. Laurence Oliphant 10 
24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 


Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. II 20 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 
Mudfog Papers, &c. By Chas. 

Dickens 20 

206 Picture, The, and Jack of All 

Trades. By Charles Reade. . . 10 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


13 


264 Pi^cloucbe, a French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey . . . 
318 Pioneers, The ; or, The Sources 
of the Susquehanna. By J. 

Feniinore Cooper 

393 Pirate. The. By Sir Walter Scott 
850 Play\vri^?ht’s Daugrhter. A. By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 

818 Pluck. By John Strange Winter 
869 Poison of Aspg, The. By Flor- 
ence Marry at 

836 Point of Honor, A. By Mrs. An- 
nie Edwards 

329 Polisli Jew, The. (Translated 
from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) By Erckmann- 

Chatrian 

831 Pomegranate Seed. By the au- 
thor of “ The Two Miss Flem- 
ings,” etc 

902 Poor Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

325 Portent, The. By George Mac- 
donald — 

6 Portia. By “ The Duchess ”... 

655 Portrait, The. By Mrs. Oliphant 
558 Poverty Corner. By G. Manville 

Fenn 

310 Prairie, The. By J. Feniinore 

Cooper 

422 Precaution. By J. Feniinore 

Cooper 

828 Prettiest Woman in Warsaw, 

The. By Mabel Collins 

697 Pretty Jailer, d'he By F. Du 

Boisgobey, 1st half 

697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 

207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker 

475 Prima Donna’s Husband, The. 
By F. Du Bfiisgobey 

531 Prime Minister, Tlie. By An- 
thony Trollope. First Half.. 
531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 
thony Trollope. Second Half 
624 Primus in ludis. By M. J. Col- 

quhoun. ’ 

249 “Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 
By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “ Dora 'rhorne ” 

556 Prince of Darkness, A. By F. 

Warden 

859 Prince of the 100 Soups, The. 

Edited by Vernon Lee 

704 Prince Otto. By R. L. Steven- 
son 

355 Princess Dagomar of Poland, 
The. Heinrich Felberrnann. 

228 Princess Napraxine. “Oiiida” 
23 Pi-incess of Thule, A. By Will- 
iam Black 

88 Privateersman, The. By Cap- 
tain Marry at 

321 Prodigals, The: And Their In- 
heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant. 
944 Professor, The. By Charlotte 
Bronte 


144 Promises of Marriage. By Emile 

Gaboriau 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 
947 Publicans and Sinners; or, Lu- 
cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. 

Biaddon. First half 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, Lu- 
cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon. Second half 20 

912 Pure Gold. By Mrs. H. Lovett 

Cameron 20 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 
maine’s Divorce. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by 

Mi.ss M. E. Braddon 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade 20 

68 Queen Amongst Women, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

932 Qneenie’s Whim. ByRosaNou- 

chette Carey 20 

591 Queen of Hearts, The. By Wil- 
kie Collins 20 

641 Rabbi’s Spell, The. By Stuart 

C. Cumberland 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trol- 

loi>e 20 

661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 
tie Murray 20 

433 Rainy June, A. By “ Otiida ”. . 10 
700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. First half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. Second half 20 

815 Ralph Wilton’s Weird. By Mrs. 

Alexander . . .^. 10 

442 Rauthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes ; 20 

780 Rare Pale Margaret. By the au- 
thor of “ What’s His Offence?” 20 
327 Raymond’s Atonement, (From 
the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 
768 Red as a Rose is She. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- 
gobey. First half 20 

918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- 
gobey. Second half 20 

381 Red Cardinal, The. By Frances 

Elliot 10 

73 Redeemed by Love; or. Love’s 
Victory. ‘By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 20 

89 Red Eric, The. ByR. M. Ballan- 

tyne 10 

463 Re'dgauntlet. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

580 Red Route, The. By William 

Si me 20 

361 Red Rover, The. A Tale of the 
Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


14 


421 Redskins, The; or, Indian and 
Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

427 Reiiiarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., 
Tlie. Formerly known as 
“Tommy Upmore.” By R. 

D. Blackmore 20 

■237 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne.” (Large type 

edition) 20 

967 Repented at Leisure. By Cliar- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 

740 Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

375 Ride to Khiva, A. By Captain 

Fred Burnaby, of the Royal 

Horse Guards 20 

816 Rogues and Vagabonds. By 
George R. Sims, author of 

“ ■’Otjflpr ” 20 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
ot “Dora Thorne” 10 

741 Romance of a Young Girl, The; 

«^r. The Heiress of Hilldrop. 

By Charlotte M. Braeme 20 

66 Romance of a Poor VoungMan, 

The. By Octave Feuillet 10 

139 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid, The. By Thomas Hardy 10 
898 Romeo and Juliet: A 9’ale of 
Two Young Fools. By Will- 
iam Black 20 

42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 

360 Rones of Sand. By R. E. Francil- 

lon .: 20 

C64 Rory O’More. Bv Samuel Lover 20 
193 Rosary Folk, The. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

670 Ik^se and the Ring, The. By 

W. M. Thackeray. Illustrated 10 
119 Rose DistilTd, A. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 
296 Rose in Thorns, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
1 ’’ in 


129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duchess ” 10 
180 Round the Galley Fire. By \y. 

Clark Russell 10 

566 Royal Highlanders, The; or. 
The Black Watch in Egypt. 

By James Grant 20 

736 Roy and Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 

409 Roy’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- 

Melville 20 

489 Rupert Godwin. By Miss M. E. 

B) ad don 20 

457 Russians at the Gates of Herat, 

The. By Charles Marvin. ... 10 

962 Sabina Zembra. William Black 20 
616 Sacred Nugget, The. By B. L. 
Farjeon 30 


223 Sailor’s Sweetheart,. A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
795 Sam’s Sweetheart. By Helen 

B. Mathers 20 

420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 
Blanuscripts. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 1st half 20 

660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 2d half 20 

699 Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 1st hall ... 20 
699 Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

441 Sea Change, A. By Flora L. 

Shaw 20 

82 Sealed Lips. F. Du Boisgobey. 20 

423 Sea Lions, The; or. The l^ost 

Sealers. By J. F. Cooper. . . 20 

85 Sea Queen, A. By W. Clark 

Russell 20 

490 Second Life, A. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

101 Second Thoughts. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

781 Secret Dispatch, The. By Janies 

Grant 10 

810 Secret of Her Life, Tlie. By Ed- 
ward Jenkins *. . . . 20 

387 Secret of the Clift's, The. By 

Charlotte French 20 

607 Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 
651 “ Self or Bearer.” By Walter 

Besant 10 

474 Serapis. By George Ebers 20 

792 Set in Diamonds. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

548 Shadow in the Corner, The. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

445 Shadow of a Crime, The. By 

Hall Caine 20 

293 Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

948 Shadow of a Sin, 9'he. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 

edition) 20 

18 Shandon Bells. By Wm. Black 20 
910 She: A History of Adventure. 

By H. Rider Haggard 20 

141 She Loved Him! By Annie 

Thomas 10 

520 She's All the World to Me. By 

Hall Caine 10 

801 She Stoops to Conquer, and 
The Good-Natured Man. By 

Oliver Goldsmith 10 

57 Shirley. By Charlotte Bront6. 20 

239 Signa. By “Ouida” 20 

707 Silas Marner: The Weaver of 

Raveloe. By (4eorge Eliot... 10 
913 Silent Shore.* The. By John 

Bloundelle-Burton 20 

539 Silvermead. By Jean Middle- 
mas ... 20 


THE SEASIDE LTBEATlY--PcrKKT Edition. 


15 


681 Singer’s Story, A. By JMay 

Laffan 10 

252 Sinless Secret, A, By “ Rita ” 10 
283 Sin of a Lifetime, The. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

E15 Sir Jasper’s Tenant. By Miss 

M. E. Bradclon 20 

643 Sketch-book of Geoffrey Cray- ' 
on, Gent, The. By Washing- 
ton Irving 20 

456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People. By Charles Dick- 
ens 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and other 
Stories. By Hugh Conway, 
author of “Called Back”... 10 
491 Society in London. By a For- 


eign Resident 10 

505 Society of London, The. By 

Count Paul Vasili 10 

778 Society’s Verdict. By the au- 
thor of “ My Marriage ” 20 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. C. 

J. Eiloart 20 

412 Some One Else. By B. M. Croker 20 
194 “So Near, and Yet So Far!” 

By AH.sou 10 

880 Son of His Father, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

368 Southern Star, The ; or, The Dia- 
mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 
926 Springhaven. R.D. Black more 20 
63 Spy, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

281 Squire's Legacy, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

817 Stabbed in the Dark. By Mrs. 

E. Lynn Linton i 10 

895 Star and a Heart, A. By Flor- 
ence Marry at 10 

158 Starling, The. By Norman 

31acleod, D.D 10 

436 Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 

802 Stern Chase, A. By Mrs.Cashel- 

Hoey 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards, 1st half 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs, 

Annie Edwards. 2d half 20 

145 “ Storm-Beaten :” God and The 
Man. By Robert Buchanan. 20 
673 Story of a Sin. By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

610 Story of Dorothy Grape, The, 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

,53 Story of Ida, The. By Francesca 10 


50 Strange Adventures of a Phae- 
ton, The. B3^ William Black. 20 
756 Strange Adventures of Captain 


Dangerous, The. By George 

Augustus Sala 20 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 
Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 10 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims. By 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 


Strange Story, A. By Sir E. 

Bulwer I^ytton 20 

Strange Voyage, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

Strange World, A. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

St. Ronan's Well. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

Struck Down. By Hawley Smart 10 
Struggle for a Ring, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

Struggle for Fame, A. By Mrs. 

J. H. Riddell 20 

Struggle for Love, A: or, For 
Another’s Sin. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

Struggle for the Right, A; or, 

Tracking (he Truth 20 

Sun-Maid, The, By Miss Grant 20 
Sunrise : A Story of These Times 

By Wm. Black 20 

Sunshine and Roses ; or, Diana’s 
Discipline. Bj- Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 10 

Surgeon’s Daughters, The, by 
Mrs. Henrv Wood. A Man of 
His Word by W. E. Norris... 10 
Surgeon’s Daughter, The, By 


Sir AValter Scott. . 10 

Susan Fielding. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards , 20 

Sweet Cymbeline. By Char- 
lotte M, Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 
Rodney’s Secret. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 


Taken at the Flood. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20. 

Tale of the Shore and Ocean, A. 

By William H, G. Kingston.. 20 
Tale of Two Cities, A. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

Talk of the Town, The. By 

James Pajm 20 

Terrible Temptation, A. By 

Chas. Reade 20 

Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss 

Jane Porter 20 

That Beautiful Wretch. By 

William Black 20 

“That Last Rehearsal,” a,nd 
Other Stories. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

That Other Person. By Mrs. 

Alfred Hunt 20 

That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris 10 

That Winter Night; or. Love's 
Victory. Robert Buchanan. . 10 
Thicker Than Water. By James 
Payn 20 


83 I 

511 

418 

550 

467 

71 

745 

964 

222 

21 

250 

277 

363 

844 

927 

123 

316 

559 

117 

77 

343 

213 

696 

49 

i;36 

915 

355 

892 

48 


IG 


THE SEASIDE LTBEARY— Pockkt Edition*. 


184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris 20 
148 Tliorns an<l Orange-Blossoms. 

By Charlotte SI. Braenie, au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

275 Three Brides, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 10 

775 Three Clerks, The. By Anthony 

Trollope 20 

124 Three Feathers. By Win. Black 20 
‘ 55 Three Guardsmen, The. By 

Alexander Dumas 20 

382 Three Sisters; or, Sketches of 
a Highly Original Family. 

By Elsa D'Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 
789 Through the Looking-Glass, 
and What Alice Found There. 

By Lewis Carroll. With fifty 


illustrations by John Teiuiiel. 20 


471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 
lotte SI. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

833 Ticket No. “9672.” By Jules 

Verne. First half 10 

836 Ticket No. “ 9072.” By Jules 

Verne. Second half 10 

367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Stuart 20 
485 Tinted Vapours. By J. Slaclaren 

Cobban 10 

503 Tinted Venus, The. By F.Anstey 10 
120 Tom Brown s School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes. 20 
243 Tom Bitrke of “Ours.” By 

Charles Lever. First half... 20 
243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” By 

Charles Lever. Second half. 20 
557 To the Bitter End. By Sliss SI. 

E. Braddon 20 

879 Touchstone of Peril, The. By 

R. E. Forrest 20 

888 Treasure Island. Robert Louis 

St^^venson 10 

853 True Slagdalen, A. By Char- 
lotte SI. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora 'I'horne ” 20 

945 Trumpet-Major, The. Thomas 

Hardy 20 

^ 346 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Sluir 10 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 

By Jules Verne 20 

75 Twenty Years After. By Alex- 
ander Dumas 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

Tighe Hopkins 20 

924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear. Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

349 Two Admirals, The. A Tale of 
the Sea. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

307 Two Kisses. By Charlotte SI. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

784 Two Miss Flemings, The. By au- 
thor of “ What’s His Offence?” 20 
242 Two Orphans, The. By D’En- 

nery 10 

563 Two Sides of the Shield, The. 

By Charlotte SI. Yon^e 20 


311 Two Years Before the Slast. 

Bv R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

407 Tylney Hail. By Thomas Hood 20 

862 Ugly Barrington. B}^ “ The 

Duchess.” 10 

137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant lU 
5.41 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 
930 Uncle Slax. By Rosa Noucliette 

Carey '. » 20 

152 Uncommercial Traveler, The. 

B.y Charles Dickens 20 

17'4 Under a Ban. By Sirs. Lodge. 20 
460 Under a Shadow. By Char- 
lotte SI. Biaeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

852 Under Five ].,akes; or. The 
Cruise of the “ Destroyer.” 

By SI. Quad 20 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. 

By Floiamce Slarryat (Sirs. 

Francis Lean) 10 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Sliss 

SI. E. Braddon 10 

4 Under Two Flags. By’Ouida” 20 
340 Under Which King? By Comp- 
ton Reade 20 

718 Unfairly Won. By Sirs. Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

634 Unforeseen, The. By Alice 

O’Hanlon 20 

508 Unholy Wish, The. By Sirs. 

Heni'ySVood 10 

735 Until tlie Day Breaks. By 

Em ilj' Spender 20 

654 “ Us.” .An Old-fashioned Story. 

By Sirs. Sloles worth 10 


837 Vagabond Heroine, A. By Sirs. 

Annie Edwards 10 

482 Vagrant Wife, A. By F. Warden 20 
691 Valentine Strange. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Sirs. Alex- 

atuler 10 

27 Vanity Fair. By William SI. 

Thackeray 20 

426 Venus's Doves. By Ida Ash- 


891 Vera Nevill; or,.Poor Wisdom’s 
Chance. By Sirs. H. Lovett 

Cameron 20 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles 

Reade 20 

59 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey.... 20 
716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

Slary Cecil Hay 20 

583 Victory Deane. By Cecil Griffith 20 
545 Vida’s' Story. By author of 

“ Guilty Without Crime ” 10 

734 Viva. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 

Beaconsfield. First half 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 
Beaconsfield. Second half. . . 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


17 


835 Vivian the Beauty. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 20 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 
777 Voyages and Travels of Sir 

John Maimdeville, Kt., The. . 10 
884 Voyage to the Cape, A. By W. 

Clark Bussell 20 


659 Waif of the “ Cynthia,” The. 

By J ules Verne 20 

9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras. 

By “* Ouida ” 20 

270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part 1 20 

270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part II 20 

621 Warden, The. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

266 Water-Babies, The. A Fairy 
Tale for a Land-Baby. By the 

Rev. Cliarles Kingsley 10 

512 Waters of Hercules, The 20 

112 Waters of Marah, The. By John 

Hill 20 

359 Water-Witch, The. By J. Feni- 

inore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scbtt 20 
195 Way of the World, The.” By 

David Christie Murray 20 

415 Ways of the Hour, The. B}' J. 


344 “Wearing of the Green, The.” 

By Basil 20 

943 Weavers and Weft; or; Love 
That Hath Us in His Net.” 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

961 Wee Wifie. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey 20 

312 Week in Killarney, A. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

458 Week of Passion, A; or. The . 

Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. By Edward 

Jenkins 20 

79 Wedded and Parted. By Char- 
lotte M. Biaeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

628 Wedded Hands. By the author 

of “ My Lady’s Folly ” 20 

400 Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish, The, 

By J. Feuimore Cooper 20 

637 What’s His Offence? By author 

of “ The Two Miss Flemings ” 20 
722 What’s Mine’s Mine. By George 

Macdonald 20 

679 Where Two Ways Meet. By 

Sarah Doudney 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

236 Which Shall It Be? By Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

627 White Heather. By Wm. Black 20 
70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance. By William Black . . tO 
ZSd White Witch, The. A Novel. . . 20 
939 Why Not? Florence Many at. . 20 


849 Wicked Girl, A. Mary Cecil Hay 20 


38 Widow Lerouge, The. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

76 Wife in Name Only; or, A Bro- 
ken Heart. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

254 W i fe’s Secret, The, and Fair but 
False. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 
323 Willful Maid, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

908 Willful Young AVoman, A 20 

761 AVill AVeatherhelm. By AVilliam 

H. G. Kingston 20 

373 Wing-and-Wiug. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

163 AVinifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 
rell 20 

472 AAbse AVomen of Inverness, 

The. By AVm. Black 10 

134 AVitching Hour, The, and Other 

Stories. Bv “ The Duchess ”. 10 
432 AVitch’s Head, The. By H. . 

Rider Haggard ~0 

872 AVith Cupid’s Eyes. By Flor- 
ence Marry at 20 

20 AVithin an Indh of His Life. 

By Emile Gaboriau 20 

358 AVithin the Clasp. By J. Ber- 

wick Harwood 20 

809 Witness My Hand. By the au- 
thor of Lady Gwendolen’s 

Tryst ” 10 

957 AVoodlanders, The. By Thomas 

Hardy 20 

98 AVoman-Hater, A. By Charles 

Reade 20 

705 AVoman I Loved, The, and the 
AVoman AATio Loved Me. By 

Isa Blagden 10 

701 AA^oman in AVhite, The. AVilkie 

Collins. Illustrated. 1st half 20 
701 AVoman in AA^hite, The. Wilkie 

Collins. Illustrated. 2d half 20 
854 AA^oman’s Error, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

322 AA^oman’s Love-Story, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

459 AA'oman's Temptation, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 
type edition) 20 

951 AA’^oman’s Temptation, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

295 AA^oman’s AVar, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” l... 10 

952 AVoman’s War, A. B}’^ Charlotte 

]\i. Braeme. (Large type edi- 
tion) 20 

900 Woman’s AATt, By. By Mrs. Al- 
exander 20 

934 AVooed and Married. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey — 20 

17 AVooing O’t, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 


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